


All You Knead is Love

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 51,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: "And it ain’t your macarons he’s drooling over, trust me."The Great British Bake Off comes to Chicago!
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 167
Kudos: 155





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Daily short chapters.

It wasn’t the first time The Great British Bake Off had been tried in the US, but it was the first time the producers had limited themselves to bakers from one region of the country. The idea was that people were more likely to root for hometown heroes. It was an experiment, to be sure. The Great Chicago Bake Off didn’t have the same ring as GBBO, but it would have to do. The execs had scoured the area and found twelve home bakers, from all walks of life and ages to compete for a grand prize of $100,000. For some, the money wasn’t a big deal; they just wanted the fame and exposure. For others, the money could change their lives.

Pulling all the bakers from one region did have risks: some of them might know each other, either as friends, or even as competition. But that just added to the cast dynamics, the producers argued. Made it seem more real, _gritty_. 

Gritty had never been tried before on GBBO, and it seemed impossible to explain to the US producers that the whole appeal of the show was its very wholesomeness and gentle innuendo. The experienced producers just nodded their heads, and went about their business. They had a formula, it worked all over the world, it would work here. Same hosts, same judges, a mix of people from the greater Chicago area, and lots and lots of baked goods. 

In the end, the execs had decided it would be easiest for all the bakers to live dormitory style for the duration of filming, that way even after people were eliminated, they wouldn’t be tempted to spill all the secrets to anyone on the street. The judges and hosts all had accommodations that were far more upscale, but the producers wanted to make sure the bakers all had the same access to the same facilities. 

Each contestant had a small studio with a regular oven and stove top, mini fridge, and as many ingredients as they cared to order, bring, or beg off each other. All meals were provided, but not mandatory, the bakers were welcome to take their meals privately in their apartments. No visitors, either from outside, or other bakers, were allowed into the studios: the idea was that it might provide an unfair advantage. The building had a small gym, a rooftop smoking patio, and an elevator. Aside from the bakers, it was empty. Every morning, they were escorted to the park for filming, and every afternoon, they were escorted back into the building. 

The rules were simple: each week had a baking related theme, and three rounds. Signature, where the bakers could plan their recipe ahead of time, the technical challenge, where they were each given the same sparse directions and ingredients to recreate a recipe most had never seen or heard of before. Each week, the technical challenge placements would determine a cash prize for each baker. Finally, the week would end with the showstopper, which could be practiced ahead of time, and had to wow the judges.

At the end of the three rounds, one Baker would win the role of Star Baker of the Week, and one baker would be sent back to isolation at the apartment building. Judging the competition were British super pastry chefs Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood, and the entire show was presented by two wacky hosts, Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins, who tasted items and cheered the bakers, but weren’t part of the judging process.

And thus it was that 12 strangers came to live in an empty mid-level apartment block on the edge of a park for two months in the late spring and early summer in Chicago. 

* * *

A woman’s voice, with an obvious British accent began, “It’s the moment every cake, bread, and pie lover in the United States has been waiting for. The tent is up in Maggie Daley Park, the ovens are preheated, and 12 of Chicago’s finest amateur bakers are ready to do battle. 

From hundreds of entries, a fresh batch of local hugely talented local bakers have made it to the tent.”

The camera cut to a tall, muscled man with a long brown ponytail, crouched down to stare intently into an oven.

“They’ve been practicing for months to tackle a totally new set of challenges that will push their skills, creativity, and determination to the limit.”

Another man, this one blond, cradled a bowl in the crook of one arm, whipping something furiously. 

“Their battle for survival-”

A Black woman stared intently at a taller woman arranging cookies neatly on a display rack.

“-will be judged by the king and queen of British baking,”

A tiny woman with silvery hair and a neat suit coat smiled at a plate of haphazard macarons, as she declared, “It's not a mess - it's informal."

“Legendary cookery writer Mary Berry and master-baker Paul Hollywood.”

A shorter, dark-haired man cracked his knuckles, and re-velcroed a pair of black cycling gloves.

A male British voice took over the introduction. “All the challenges this year are considerably harder,” a handsome older man with piercing blue eyes addressed the camera directly. 

A young woman looked down at a set of instructions and laughed wildly to herself, then looked around the tent for help, for guidance, anything?

He continued, “Don’t kid yourself that we’re gonna go easy cause it’s Chicago. We’re gonna be on their backs from the very first challenge.”

A pretty woman in a patterned head scarf crossed her arms across her chest. 

The female British voiceover resumed. “Those that fall short-”

A red-headed man covered his face with large, freckled hands. 

“-Will have to leave the competition, and wait with the rest of eliminated bakers until the winner is announced in Week 10.”

A Black man turned, and gave an awkward wave to the tent and its occupants.

“And only one-”

An older woman frowned down at a plate of confections, poking one dubiously with a well-manicured finger.

“-Can be crowned the winner-”

Another older woman, this one with immaculately coiffed silver hair, laughed and sloshed a wine glass as she gestured to something off-camera.

“-And receive the $100,000 cash prize.”

A young man with curly brown hair smiled into the distance. 

“Welcome to the Great Chicago Bake Off!”


	2. Week 1: Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Vodka isn’t illicit, nor do I misuse it!"  
> We meet our first bakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I can't wait for the WHOLE of week 1 to be finished to start posting. I LOVE daily chapters, so hopefully you will too?

A day before filming would start, all the bakers had arrived at the doorstep of the empty apartment building. The first two floors were functioning as staging grounds, infrastructure, and communal housing for the crew. Floors three through six were split into three separate domiciles. The elevator also went up the roof, where there were a few free weights and pieces of gym equipment in a pop-up tent, and a smoking patio. 

Contestants had begun showing up before 7am, dropped off by family members, expelled from busses, and emerging from taxis. A few showed up on foot alone, dragging bags and backpacks. The final arrival stood, glaring up at the building skeptically. Mickey had taken one bus and walked the rest of the way, lugging a duffle bag containing most of his worldly possessions (clothing, recipe plans, favorite pans) and cursing the late spring heat.

The front door of the building flew open, discharging an older woman in a flowing silk kimono. 

“I just can’t, Bradley! I need my red wine for bedtime, and my white wine for cooking.”

An exhausted-looking PA trailed behind her, presumably the Bradley in question. “Mrs. Lishman, we understand the need for alcohol in your recipes; however, we cannot let you store a two liter bottle of vodka in your apartment. You signed the disclosure, you already knew this.”

The woman looked both ways down the street, searching for a cab and ignoring Mickey entirely. “No, Bradley, this just won’t do! I signed an agreement that I wouldn’t misuse any substances, illicit or otherwise, and vodka isn’t illicit, nor do I  _ misuse  _ it!”

Mickey had a few beers tucked into his bag; he too had thought they could be technically classified as an allowed ingredient, but two liters? That took balls. Or a serious drinking problem. 

The PA finally seemed to notice Mickey watching the drama play out.

“You must be Mr. Milkovich, welcome!” He batted his eyes and blatantly looked Mickey up and down, checking him out. Mickey groaned internally. He didn’t come here to get laid, he came to get away from his ex, win some cash, maybe pull his sister and brothers out of poverty once and for all. 

“Nah, Mr. Milkovich is my father, and he’s fuckin’ dead, so I’m just Mickey, ok?”

Bradley didn’t seem the least put off. “Sure, sure. Come inside and we can get you registered, and then you can start setting up your studio.”

“Ain’t you worried about her?” Mickey hiked a thumb at the woman as she hovered over the curb, still looking in vain for a cab or other public transportation.

“We were already aware that Mrs. Lishman-”

“Call me Candace!” the woman said shrilly.

“- was a flight risk. But she did sign the agreement, and no cabs are allowed down this block. Don’t need any untoward photos of bakers to leak just yet.”

Bradley turned and gestured for Mickey to precede him into the building, his home for the next few months. 


	3. Week 1: Bradley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No guests, other bakers, or anyone are allowed into your suite."

After a lot of paperwork and few too many curious glances in the buildings lobby, Mickey was escorted up to the sixth floor by Bradley, who after seeing Mickey’s knuckle tats had suddenly given him a lot more personal space in the clanking elevator.

“So you’re right here, you share the floor with Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Silverman, uh,” Bradley checked his clipboard, “Sheila and Jody. She’s on the left, you’re in the middle, and he’s on the right.”

Mickey just let the words wash over him. His own place. No Terry, no unwashed brothers, no whiny boyfriend. Just a room to call his own.

Bradley unlocked the door, and handed Mickey the silver key. “We have a copy, in case you lose it, but that’s just for emergencies. We don’t come into baker’s apartments unless we have to.”

Pushing past the PA, Mickey dropped his duffle bag lightly on the living room carpet. Living room was a generous term, with a full sized bed in one corner and the kitchen in the other. There was a freestanding Ikea closet, and one door, which he assumed led to the bathroom. He turned around slowly, taking in the one redeeming feature. Somehow, Mickey had gotten a room with a view of the park, and the previous tenants had made sure to highlight it: the windows, though not floor to ceiling, were expansive, letting in natural light and greenery, and far beyond the towers of downtown Chicago.

Mickey gave a low whistle, and Bradley nodded. “Yeah, you got lucky. One chick has a view of the garbage alley, and she was  _ not  _ happy. Well, anyway, time for you to get settled. Smoking patio is on the roof, no smoking in the studios, please. Call tomorrow at 7am, so get some rest! And remember that no guests, other bakers, or anyone are allowed into your suite, aside from PA’s on official show business. Even then, we’re closely monitored.

With that final bit of advice, Bradley showed himself out, leaving Mickey alone for the first time since he’d been in solitary confinement in Juvie. He had hated it back then, bored out of his mind, but now… this could work. Yeah, this could definitely work. Time to pull out his ingredients and see what else he needed to practice. That fucking glaze was still kicking his ass, and he  _ needed  _ to get it right. 

After exhausting himself making and then remaking the same recipe over and over, until he had the exact timings right, and all his steps marked out, Mickey needed a cigarette, badly. He was physically tired, the sun had long-ago set, and his mind was still racing with flavors and techniques. Reluctantly, he laid on the bed, too tired even to go up to the roof for a smoke. He fell asleep before he could even take off his boots.


	4. Week 1 - Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or maybe Mickey just wasn’t into checking guys out before fucking nine o’clock in the morning.

In the morning, Mickey managed to wake up and make himself coffee before hurriedly showering. He made it to the elevator by 6:56, pulling on the fingerless food-safe gloves the producers had provided him with a stash off, and punched the button impatiently, as he heard a door open behind him. One of his ‘neighbors,’ great.

“Hey, man. The button didn’t do anything to you, right?”

Mickey turned, and inspected the man. He was tall, and built, but not in a way that made Mickey want to look for more time than he had to. Maybe it was the long greasy hair, caught up in a ponytail. Maybe it was the drawl in his voice. Or maybe Mickey just wasn’t into checking guys out before fucking nine o’clock in the morning. He didn’t give the guy any response, just turned back to the elevator, which was still recalcitrantly refusing to appear.

Another door opened and closed behind, and Mickey barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes, contenting himself with slowly cracking the knuckles on each hand.

“Oh, good morning boys!” This voice was a woman, middle-aged, by the sound of it. “I’m Sheila Jackson, you must be Jody and Mickey, but which is which?”

Mickey didn’t take the bait, just hit the elevator button for the thousandth time.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Jody Silverman.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jody!”

The weight of two eyes on his back was too much, so Mickey finally turned. 

“Mickey.” The wide eyes of the other two bakers took him in, and Mickey almost felt bad for his snippy tone, so he added, “Hey.”

That was apparently a sufficient contribution, because the other two began a detailed conversation about the original show, where they lived, practically their entire life stories by the time the elevator finally deigned to appear.

In the lobby, they found the rest of the bakers had already gathered, and a few more PA’s herding them. They were ushered out the door, once a headcount had been confirmed, crossing the street in the crosswalk like children, and then over a small crest of grass, leading down to the famed white tent that hung like an apparition in the dewy morning mist. It was a little magical, even Mickey could admit. 

At least the first time. The camera crew needed them to back over the little hill and repeat the entrance twice more before they were content with the shot. Mickey thought he’d looked the same every time: half asleep and grumpy, but some of the other bakers seemed to be making more of an effort, exclaiming with porn-star worthy ooh’s and aah’s.


	5. Week 1 - Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No way was this human Dorito gonna be competition.

Next, each baker had a chance to sit in the MUA’s chair and get some quick touch ups of skin and hair. There wasn’t any real makeup being done by the MUA’s, but they wanted everyone to look his or her best on camera. Or so the PA said. Twelve times in a row, because of course, Mickey was last in line for the chairs.

He sat, gingerly, having to stretch up to find purchase on the tall chair, as a heavily-made up Asian man glided over, introducing himself as ‘Cole, your resident skincare angel.’

Mickey snorted, but Cole didn’t seem perturbed. He was peering at Mickey’s face, at his skin, he guessed.

“Betcha don’t believe in sunscreen, eh? Not to worry, mama has a little lotion that’ll make you glow, baby.”

Cole produced said lotion and, rubbing it first on his hands to warm it, began to wipe it across Mickey’s face in quick swaths. It felt ok, and once it had absorbed, Mickey peered into the mirror.

The guy hadn’t been joking, Mickey’s skin looked  _ luminous _ . Like a unicorn or some shit. All the wrinkles and age spots he’d seen gradually taking over had disappeared, leaving him with a glow and just a hint of his natural freckles. As he hopped down from the chair, he fought off his nerves and gave Cole a tentative shoulder pat and a quiet “Thanks.” Judging by Cole’s broad smile, he knew that Mickey meant it. 

Once they were finally allowed into the tent, each baker found his or her assigned workbench, and Mickey took a chance to take in his competition. He’d already met Jody and Sheila, who happened to be on his right. Some quirk of fate had put Mickey at the last workbench on the left, just behind some tall asshole. A ginger, of course.

The man’s hair reminded him of his ex, of Byron. For a moment, Mickey was back in Byron’s apartment, hearing him complaining about yet another mess in the kitchen, more time Mickey had “wasted” making bread,  _ didn’t Mickey remember he was gluten-free? _

Ugh, fuck that guy and his unwillingness to let Mickey feed him new recipes, always concerned about fat and sugar and fucking  _ carbs _ . 

Looking more carefully at the redhead in front of him, Mickey noticed with appreciation the broad shoulders and trim waist, the Captain America style build that always drew his eye. Not this time, Mickey didn’t have time to eye up the competition like that, and he wasn’t giving anymore gingers the time of day. 

_ How could the guy be a baker anyway, with a physique like that? Did he even eat anything he made? _ He couldn’t, Mickey decided with certainty. And bakers who didn’t taste their shit were never good. No way was this human Dorito gonna be competition for him. 

There were a few older ladies, some guys his own age, and few younger kids, including one girl who didn’t look old enough to drink yet. Finally, the PA’s came through, doing last checks, and then the cameras were rolling on the first day of the competition.

The two hosts were filming right outside the tent, and Mickey could hear their corny lines.

“Up until last year, the most searched for food word on the internet was chicken. But this year, it’s cake. Which is useful, because this week’s episode is all about cake.” The brunette host, Sue, stopped, and eyed up her cohost, Mel, who was devouring a square of cake, moaning lightly. Mickey had to stifle a snorting laugh, earning him a dirty look from the camera-person closest.

Soon enough Mel, Sue, Mary Berry, and Paul Hollywood had lined up at the front of the tent. They offered some nonsense small-talk that Mickey ignored, all while trying to look like he was paying attention. All he wanted to hear was that time was starting; he was beyond ready to execute his plan. 


	6. Week 1 - Signature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I, for one, cannot wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a little sorry for the brevity of these "chapters," they're really all piece of the first chapter, which is week 1.

“A very warm welcome, bakers, to this, your signature challenge,” Mel intoned. “This is your opportunity to demonstrate one of your tried-and-test home recipes.”

Mary and Paul stood to the side, looking serious.

Sue took over. “So, what we’re looking for is your own personal spin on an absolute American classic, the cupcake. This is a simple cake, filled if you like, topped with some type of icing, frosting, or glaze, and a decoration.” She was gesturing broadly with her hands, as if anyone in the tent or in the US didn’t already know what a cupcake was. 

Mel nodded thoughtfully, adding “You’ve got two hours to bake and present a dozen identical cupcakes. So, for the first time…”

“-On your marks-” Sue’s chipper voice echoed in the tent’s silence.

“-Get set-” Mel’s voice was warmer, more upbeat.

“Bake!” The two women pronounced the word simultaneously. 

Normally, Mickey was used to hearing the show’s music begin, and seeing a baking montage, but with a start, he realized he needed to move, and quickly. No music played in the tent to help motivate him, nor could he listen on a personal device. He just had to put his head down and get to work while Mary, Paul, Mel, and Sue came around and did one-to-one interviews with each baker about their backgrounds and plan.

#### Vee

The herd of camera-people and personalities came to a fit Black woman at the head workbench on the left first.

“Hullo, Veronica. What are you making for us today?” Paul was making an effort not to intimidate quite yet, but Veronica’s eyes were wide.

She gamely braved a smile, gently correcting him. “Oh, it’s Vee, no one calls me Veronica except my mama. Learned everything I know about baking from her.”

“So family, that’s your motivation then?” Mel was leaning, elbows on the worktop, dangerously close to a mixing bowl whirring away, icing sugar or flour puffing out in large white clouds.

“Yes, I cook for my husband and my girls, sometimes for the neighbors. Always goes over well.” 

“And what do you have there?” Mary inquired, eyeing the alarming food dyes sitting on the counter.

“Well,” Vee took a deep breath and plunged ahead, “My girls just love that funfetti flavor from the grocery store. They want funfetti ice cream, funfetti cakes, funfetti cupcakes, funfetti everything, I guess. So I’m doing an elevated version, funfetti for grownups.”

Paul nodded inscrutably.

Undeterred by his face, Vee continued. “It’ll look like traditional funfetti cake, yellow cake with sprinkles, and vanilla cream on top, but the sprinkles I’ll be making from scratch.”

“Oh!” 

“Oooh!”

“Ah!”

Mary, Mel, and Sue all produced similar exclamations in a range of pleased tones. 

“Well, don’t get too excited yet. It’s a new technique for me, and I might still screw it up. But if it goes right, we’ll have blueberry, strawberry, pineapple, green apple, mandarin, and pink grapefruit flavored sprinkles.”

“I, for one, cannot wait,” Sue avowed, as they all moved away to let Vee work.


	7. Week 1 - Caleb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it’s vegan.  
> Can't wait.

The next bench the cameras and hosts visited was covered in white sprays of flour and sugar, and had a pot of lemons boiling on the stovetop. 

“Caleb, good morning! Are those lemons?” Mary Berry knew perfectly well that those were lemons having the life senselessly boiled out of them, but what she didn’t know was why.

“They are!” The tall man stopped his efforts and came to speak to them, beaming. “Lemon and poppyseed is such a classic flavor combination in the UK, and I wanted you all to feel right at home.”

Paul nodded, and Mel and Sue pasted on pleasant smiles.

“But are you sure boiling them is what you want to do,” Mary asked gently, hoping to lead Caleb away from his folly.

“Absolutely! It pulls the essence right out of them so I can infuse it into my cupcake.”

“Yes, about that- I’ve been told you’re planning a vegan cupcake? So no eggs or dairy?” Paul pressed.

“Right, I’m using tofu in place of eggs-”

Out of his line of sight, Mel pulled a face.

“-and in place of the milk I’m using coconut milk. So it has a mild tropical note. I bake for the men at the firehouse, and they love me, I mean, they love _it_. They love my baking. Plus I’m vegan. And I like turning other people onto vegan food, like when they try it and say ‘This is great’, and I say, surprise, it’s vegan! That happens to me ALL the time.”

Paul stared at Caleb for a moment, then said, “Can’t wait,” before moving the train onwards.


	8. Week 1 - Sheila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman of bold choices.

Mickey’s female floormate was next, Sheila. She was hard at work hand whipping some egg whites furiously.

“Oh, I know that look, the look that says ‘give me tennis elbow or give me meringue’,” Sue joked.

A bit winded from her whipping, Sheila still managed a pleasant tone. “That’s right, I’m putting a light meringue on top of my cupcake, because I’m using such strong flavors. I always baked for my husband and he didn’t like anything too complicated, but now my husband’s gone, my daughter is off in grad school, and she said I should apply. So here I am!”

“A woman of bold choices, eh? I like that attitude.” Mary smiled winningly, her beatific smile, that made her look like a very old angel.

“Nutella and coffee, but they’re my daughter’s favorites, so I think it’ll be alright.”

Paul put out his hands for Sheila’s mixing bowl, and she gave it to him with a puzzled expression. He upended up, and held it over her head.

The whole tent seemed to be holding its breath, but the meringue held.

“Looks done to me,” Paul offered.

“Yes, of course, thank you so much,” Sheila was left fawning as they moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am here apologizing for the short chapters. I am SO far ahead on this but life is so unpredictable... I'd rather give you daily tiny tastes.
> 
> As the chapters go on, we'll have less cake and more feelings, but Week 1 is very much about following the structure of the show and giving you the full experience. 
> 
> Week 1 is looking like it will cap out around 24 chapters. 
> 
> Lots of cake. 🎂🎂🍰🍰🧁🧁
> 
> Some feelings too.


	9. Week 1 - Linda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will be very careful.

The final one-on-one camera interview for the Signature round was a woman in a neatly pinned floral headscarf. She had lambent brown eyes that looked like they belonged to a Disney princess, but her mouth was set firmly and her jaw jutted out with determination.

“Linda, do my eyes deceive me or is that boba?” Mel gasped, as she stared down into a simmering pot on the stove.

Linda smiled. “This cupcake is my take on a really good cup of tea.”

“You don’t have to pander to us dear, we brought our own tea.” Mary quipped.

“Not a British person’s perfect cup of tea, but mine. At the convenience store, we started selling boba tea a few years ago, and I really enjoyed both the process of making them and the flavor and textural combinations.”

“A convenience store?” Paul raised one silver eyebrow in query.

“I know it’s odd, owning a convenience store but liking to bake at this level. What can I say, I’m a perfectionist. Food allows me to be creative and show my heart.” Linda stared at Paul levelly while she spoke, the speech clearly prepared in advance.

“Tea and boba, anything else hiding? Cracker jacks? Spam?” Sue peeked over the worktop, which was full but immaculate.

“Maybe one special ingredient,” Linda admitted, holding up a spice grinder for them each to sniff in turn.

“Cardamom. Delightful,” Mary gasped.

“Best be careful, too much of that and we’ll lose the delicate flavor of the tea.”

“I will be very careful, Paul,” Linda said seriously. 

The time wound down, people rushed around, cupcakes rose in the oven, or sunk. Creams were piped, or melted on too-hot cakes. Drizzles were dolloped, and accoutrements were finished, until finally time was up, and each baker had a dozen identical cupcakes on a presentation plate at the end of his or her workbench. The bakers all had to sit on odd, wooden bar stools while the camera people swooped through, to catch them in silent contemplation of their efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously we're still in week 1, and in order to introduce everyone in the cast, we're doing a lot of visiting and watching people bake. In latter weeks, we will do a bit less cake-talk, so if you're not into that part, hang in there.


	10. Week 1 - Signature Judging - Ian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly got a cupcake to the back of his head.

Satisfied that there was enough footage of everyone pensively looking at their more or less successful bakes, and happy to have caught at least one mound of frosting sliding off a cupcake, the hosts and judges began their rounds.

“Ian, good morning. What do we have here?”

Mickey casually leaned forward on his bench, and stretched his hearing so he could spy on the hot dorito’s judging. Hopefully he was shit, and could go home soon, moving Mickey closer to the cash prize.

“Hi, hey.” Mickey could tell the guy was giving them some shy-ass, charming smile, it was in the curve of his spine.  _ Gay _ .

“Today I made a ginger cupcake, with lemon cream cheese frosting, and a caramel with ginger drizzle.”

“Looks scrummy!” Mel and Sue looked like they wanted to dip their fingers in, and Ian’s posture improved with the praise. “When did you start baking, Ian?”

“Oh, it’s a thing someone once suggested to me, to help me relax.”

“He means a hobby,” Sue stage whispered to Mel, and they all grinned.

“Basically, yeah. I bake to relax myself, like when I can’t sleep after a hard day at work. I like the details, making things look they way they do in my head.”

“As an EMT, I imagine you see a lot of blood and such, does that ever turn you off from food?”

“Weirdly, no. I just come home, usually late at night, and have the kitchen to myself. I live with my five siblings, and it’s the only time all day when I get peace and quiet to think. Like meditation, I guess.”

Paul ended the conversation by aggressively slicing one cupcake in half, and picked up a piece on the end of a fork. Off camera, Mickey could see a PA standing by to take the soiled fork, and provide another from the case of hundreds.

Mary and Paul each took a bite, with Mel and Sue looking on. The two judges shared an ineffable look, and Mary spoke first.

“Ian, the lemon and the ginger are quite good, but I feel that perhaps the caramel went a bit over?”

“Over? It’s burnt, Mary,” Paul said bluntly.

“No, I thought it might be,” Ian admitted. “I smelled something, but I wasn’t sure if it was mine or someone nearby.” He made a vague gesture over his shoulder at Mickey, and nearly got a cupcake to the back of his head, as Mickey realized the guy was implying  _ Mickey  _ had burned something. The camera-person in Mickey’s line of sight gave the slightest shake of the head, telling Mickey not to do it, and he sagged back on his stool, still aggravated.

“Next time you even think that, start over or leave it off. Perfection or nothing, and the cake itself is divine.” Mary advised sagely.


	11. Week 1 - Signature Judging - Jody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My body’s a temple, you know?

Sue and Mel shared some goofy jokes, and the group moved on to Mickey’s other floormate, Jody.  _ The fuck kinda name was Jody for a guy?  _ The Segal ponytail wasn’t bad, at least.

The man was more muscular than the redhead, but Mickey didn’t feel the same pull, as though he had to keep his eyes on the guy. Maybe it had been the Om’s coming from the floor behind the workbench while his cupcakes baked, but somehow, Mickey got the impression that this guy wasn’t quite the simple muscle-head he appeared to be.

“Hiya,” Jody offered.

“Right, so Jody, remind us of the topping of this?” Sue began.

“It’s a raspberry cupcake, topped with chantilly cream.”

“And the pattern?” Mel eyed the pink powdered swirl hungrily.

“Oh, yeah, I made that with ground powder made from freeze dried raspberries.”

“Risky move, Jody, using an out-of-season fruit. Could be too tart, ruin the whole balance of the cupcake.” Paul eyed the other man up, eyes lingering perhaps a moment too long on the broad shoulders.

“Could be, but these are raspberries I grew myself last summer. Froze them myself, so I know they’re right. I eat clean, so I prefer to make all my own meals from scratch. My body’s a temple, you know?” Jody’s tone was more than a little smug.

“We should try them, at least, before we criticize,” Mary contended.

She and Paul delicately accepted bites of the cupcake off forks, chewing slowly.

“You’re spot on with the raspberries,” Paul began, and Jody visibly brightened and straightened where he’d slumped a bit in anxiety. “But,” here Paul wagged a finger at Jody, “Those were in the oven three, four, maybe five minutes too long. Far too dry. The texture of a cupcake should be moist and hold moisture. Shame.” 

Mary amended quickly, “But the fruit and cream were just right. Well done there.”


	12. Week 1 - Signature Judging - Kassidy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, I just follow my heart.

Next up in the judging was the youngest baker in the tent, a young woman who had neon feathers braided into her hair. 

“That’s a nice decoration, Kassidy,” Paul began, looking carefully at the chocolate disks. “What’s the lettering meant to say?”

“Oh, those are my boyfriend’s initials, CFHG. Hi, baby!” Kassidy had turned and said that last directly into the nearest camera, waving like a loon.

Mel and Sue just blinked at her, but Mary was ready. “How charming. What flavor are your cupcakes, my dear?”

“This is a salted caramel cupcake with a chocolate ganache, and the chocolate disks have sea salt in them too. I like salty and sweet, but really I just follow my heart!” She threw another manic smile at a camera lens, and Mickey flinched back instinctively, despite being across the room. The girl looked possessed.

“I don’t,” Paul said flatly. “I find most people overdo the salt, and then put in too much sugar to compensate, and it overwhelms the palate.”

Mary patted his arm in remonstrance. “I’m sure Kassidy’s a light touch with her seasoning. Let’s taste.”

Kassidy did not have a light hand, in fact Mel’s mouth was clearly puckering at the level of salt in the cupcake, while Sue looked on and tried to stifle her laughter.

“Well, Kassidy, you’ve surprised me.” Paul began. “I said I thought you’d put in too much salt and too much sugar, but you’ve only overdone the salt. I think, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, a smidge more sugar wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I agree completely. I like a bit of salt with my sweet, but I do need to taste the sweet.” Mary added kindly.

Off camera and out of Kassidy’s sight line Mel was gulping from a water bottle, clearly trying to rid her mouth of the salinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Week 1 is written.   
> That means I am 12 days ahead on daily chapters, or that Week 1 has 12 more chapters.   
> Weeks 2 and onward will be structured with less 🎂🎂🎂🎂.   
> But Week 1 is critical to setting up our cast and format, in case readers are unfamiliar with the show.   
> Loving the comments :)


	13. Week 1 - Signature Judging - Svetlana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pumpkin spice is fake mix from corporation.

The cameras and hosts moved like an amoeba around the tent until they came to a stop in front of the workbench of a tall, feline-looking woman with a haughty expression on her face.

“Do I smell pumpkin spice, Svetlana?” Sue asked, facing no one in particular.

“No, it’s cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. Pumpkin spice is fake mix from corporation. I make this myself.”

“And are those pepitas?” Paul actually looked interested, eyes nearly sparkling.

“Fried.  [ Cupcake ](https://www.williams-sonoma.com/recipe/pumpkin-cupcakes-pumpkin-seeds.html) is brown sugar, chocolate, pumpkin. Frosting is cinnamon. And fried pepitas on top.”

“What a treat, we usually only see those on savory dishes.” Mary’s voice also sounded gleeful. 

“I cook for father in Russia, now I cook for son, both like pepitas.”

_ Was that all it took to impress these two, fried pumpkin seeds? _ Mickey was still eavesdropping the best he could from his own workbench. 

As Mary and Paul bit into Svetlana’s cupcakes, it was clear from the other side of the tent that this weird Slavic chick was a contender. Mary and Paul were practically drooling over the cupcakes, taking multiple bites, which they hadn’t from anyone else’s creation.

“This is delightful!”

Paul stared at Svetlana; they were very nearly the same height, and she calmly gazed back. Then, he stuck out his hand, and her mouth finally twitched into the smallest approximation of a smile as she shook it.

“Well done, Svetlana.”

“First handshake of the season,” the Dorito-man stage whispered, and there was light applause from the other bakers, including, grudgingly, Mickey, just because he didn’t  _ actually  _ want to look like a dick on TV.

\---

At some point the small herd of cameras and judges had come to Mickey’s bench, but it had all just felt like a blur. He knew he’d talked about his Snickers-inspired  [ cupcake ](https://www.imperialsugar.com/recipes/snickers-cupcakes) , topped with crushed nuts and caramel, all of which Paul had declared was too sweet. 

Mickey’s response had been the cringeworthy, “I like ‘em sweet.” 

Now all of America would know he was a moron. 

He hadn’t been sure which camera to look at, and he’d clearly felt the flush of heated embarrassment race up his neck, knew he looked all splotchy and weird. It wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t great, either.

Mel and Sue had seemed to like the cupcake, at least, and it wasn’t burnt or any other dumb shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 53 days to Season 11.  
> ALSO next chapter is longer- it's the first Technical challenge. There will be a few minor tweaks from the show.


	14. Week 1 - Technical Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just stick my hand in and feel when it’s hot enough.

After a break for filming Signature reactions from each baker outside the tent, and a quick lunch of simple sandwiches, they were back. 

“Bakers, now it’s time for your first technical challenge, let’s have a quick communal shoulder roll.” Mel and Sue both mimed the release of tension, complete with huge yawns of satisfaction. 

Sue continued the intro. “We’re asking you today to make a shoulder roll.”

After a brief pause, there was nervous laughter in the tent. 

Mel took over again. “Mary and Paul are not going to be around to be part of the action, so if you’d like to, uh, jog on, as we say back home.”

It was apparently Sue’s turn again, and it was making Mickey a little dizzy to watch them go back and forth. “So, your first technical challenge is devilishly difficult. Satan’s last stand. It’s an angel food cake. This is your chance to win a share of the four thousand dollar technical prize this week, so I hope you know how to make one.” 

Mickey’s breath caught in his throat. 

Seeing blank stares around the room, possibly shock on some faces, Sue went on. “This is a delicate, light sponge cake, topped with whipped cream, and drizzled with an orange and lime fruit curd.”

He crossed his fingers behind his back and his toes inside his boots.

Mel delivered the coupe d'etat. “I can now reveal to you, bakers, that this is one of Mary Berry’s own recipes.”

Yes! He knew this recipe- had the book back at his old apartment, had studied and poured over the pages. He’d even made this very recipe before, because Byron had liked the idea of a low-fat cake. 

“You’ve got two and a half hours to make the angels sing.” Sue.

“On your marks.” Mel.

“Get set.” Sue.

“Bake!” The two women sang out, and then the chaos in the tent began in earnest as camera people scurried around trying to get shots of all the bakers without getting other cameras in the way. 

Each baker removed a linen cloth that covered a bowl of fresh eggs, a veritable loaf of butter, a cake pan, and some mason jars of assorted dry ingredients.

Mickey barely glanced at the pared down recipe, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that some of the other bakers were studying the slip of paper with its scant lines, as if it held the secrets of the universe. Even the ginger beefcake in front of him was scrutinizing the paper, running his fingers over the words.

Across the aisle, Mickey could hear his floormate, Sheila, talking to herself quietly.

“What is going on? Angel food cake, yep, yes, made it, we got this, no problem.”

Elsewhere in the tent, other bakers seemed less confident. A few looked ready to cry, lips quivering as they read the minimalist directions. The young girl, Kassidy, was looking around as if she would get help from another baker, or even a production member, but no one would meet her eye. Mickey just ducked his head, and started measuring and mixing as the cameras ducked and swooped, doing their own thing.

Soon, mixers were whirring throughout the tent, and bakers kept sneaking anxious peeks at their peers, trying to see how dense the egg whites needed to be. Mickey knew- firm peaks, but not stiff. Not drippy, either. Then add the rest of the dry ingredients carefully, so as not to knock the air out of the mixture.

Some of the bakers were confidently wiping butter along the inside of their cake pans, others were applying various baking sprays. Mickey chuckled inwardly to himself. Their cakes were gonna be fucked up looking. He continued to cruise through the prep, until it came time to bake the cake. A camera person caught his look of confusion and rushed over, encouraging him to explain himself.

“Yeah, at home my oven knob doesn’t have any numbers, all worn off and the timer’s broken. I just stick my hand in and feel when it’s hot enough, ya know? An’ this recipe doesn’t say how hot or how long, and this oven feels different than mine at home, probably cause mine is-” he caught himself about to curse, brought it back, “-is no good. So I’m thinking 400 degrees sounds about right, and maybe 30 minutes.”

Was it his imagination or did the human Dorito stiffen, when he said his oven didn’t have a knob or a timer? Was it disgust or recognition? Whatever. The camera person seemed satisfied with Mickey’s soundbite, so was left in peace to slide his cake into the oven and begin working on the fruit curd. Curd sounded fucking gross, like toe jam, but he’d give it his best.

When his cake came out 30 minutes later, he knew something had gone wrong. It was browned, just a hint past golden, and it had risen well, but it felt like maybe the middle wasn’t 100% done. On sheer gut instinct, Mickey tossed it back in, setting his timer for seven minutes. Raw was inedible. Burned wasn’t good, but it was at least safe to eat. In seven minutes, the cake he pulled out had developed a solid brown crust, but felt fully cooked, so he quickly walked it to one of the fridges scattered around the perimeter to cool.

Shortly, time was called, and all the bakers brought up their efforts to the plaid cloth-covered table that had been placed at the front of the tent. Mickey easily found the picture of himself, some quick shot they’d taken during casting, and put his cake behind it. Sitting on the fucking wobbly wooden stool yet again, he glanced at the other cakes. Some looked ok, a few looked perfect, but a couple- oof. Sunken, underbaked, curd too pale, just not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW we're all here for the Mickey and Ian interactions. We're getting there.


	15. Week 1 - Technical Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Tastes ok'. That meant he wasn’t the worst. 

Paul and Mary had been whisked back in and were staring at the row of cakes with a mixture of horror and anticipation, with no idea which baker had made which cake. 

“What an array,” Mary declaimed, sounding slightly awed.

There was muffled laughter from the row of bakers, as the cake she stood in front of was one of the very worst specimens, sagging in the middle with no visible fruit curd at all.

“Shall we start from this side then, Mary?” Paul offered, getting the show on the road.

The first cake had a nice texture, but hadn’t risen enough. The baker had likely greased the pan. The next one was very neat, almost precise in its details and lines. The third cake, Mickey knew, belonged to Veronica; he’d seen her struggling to get it finished in time, and the cake showed it. The top was a mess, the cake wasn’t well risen, and it was a little raw inside to boot. Fourth in the lineup was the human Dorito, Ian. Mickey had watched the guy bake, and he hadn’t made any obvious errors, so he was curious to hear how it was judged. 

“Nice rise, straight sides here, I think, but I’ve just got to get through the cream,” Mary narrated.

“Curd’s a little too thin,” Paul critiqued. “Just right on the structure, though isn’t it? No dip in the sides.”

Mickey could see the red-head’s almost military posture slump a little, even though the judgement sounded pretty decent overall.

Mickey’s cake was next, and he held his breath, flexing his fists in an anxious rhythm. 

“This has got a very smooth outside, and a little bit messy on the top,” Mary began. 

She was right, it  _ was  _ messy on top, Mickey inwardly groaned.

“It’s a bit dark on the outside, but it tastes ok, not burnt or too dense,” Paul’s voice held a clear note of surprise, but Mickey took the praise. 

_ Tastes ok. That meant he wasn’t the worst.  _

The judging went on but Mickey had zoned out, just watching the forks cut cake and lift, mouths chewing, new forks, cut cakes, lift and chew.

He did zone back in on the last cake, mostly because Paul took a bite then spit it out in his own hand, laughing.

“Salt. Don’t eat that, Mary, someone’s been having a bit of a laugh or misread the recipe.”

That had been Mickey’s nightmare for weeks once he’d been cast, that he’d accidentally switch the sugar and salt and serve something inedible to the judges. It looked like Caleb was living that nightmare, because the formerly imposing man was now hunched over, arms wrapped around himself, tears practically standing out in his eyes.

Mary tried to soften the blow, adding “It has happened before. These things do happen sometimes.”

Finally all of the baker’s work had been tasted, and all that remained was the ranking. Unlike the Signature, where it wasn’t necessarily clear where anyone fell in comparison to the other bakers, the Technical was judged head-to-head, with the results announced from worst to best, along with the cash prizes for each.

“Number 12 is here,” Mary indicated the last cake, Caleb’s salt monstrosity. “Two hundred dollar prize, still, for a cake we couldn’t eat is a good day’s work.”

“Number eleven,” Paul gestured, “is here.” It was Veronica, with the raw middle, who also got $200.

Number ten was Candace, who had greased her pan, number nine was Sheila, whose fruit curd was pale and anemic, and eight was Svetlana, each earning $200.

In seventh, sixth, fifth, and fourth places, respectively, were Mickey, Trevor, Jody, and Linda, winning $250.

Mickey could live with sixth. Middle of the pack, very safe for week one.

Third place was Tony, and second was Ian, each of whom pocketed $500.

The top place went to Kassidy, in a total surprise. She leaped off her chair and charged forward, looking ready to hug Paul and Mary, but Mel grabbed her swiftly in a side-hug and guided her back to her stool with a warm congratulations. The ditzy broad got a whole G to herself for that, and Mickey vowed he, too, would win fuckin’ top on a Technical before the show was over. 


	16. Week 1 - Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This weird, in-his-space, red-headed, well-muscled, probably-Northside, almost-certainly-straight baker.

While the tops and bottoms were held back for reaction interviews, the rest of the bakers were escorted back across the park to the apartment building. Everyone was quiet: they were all the middle of the pack and well-aware of it. Some were perhaps swearing to improve, others grateful to have squeaked through. They were also exhausted: standing on your feet all day and looking good, not swearing, not throwing crockery, being on edge for hours, it all took a toll. 

Mickey was thinking about the next day, the Showstopper bake he had planned. It would be impressive, if he could pull it off. 

_ Did he have enough ingredients to do a practice run tonight? _

Before he’d really considered the thought, he was in the elevator, watching people depart on every floor. At the 6th floor, Jody and Sheila got off, waiting for him to follow. He waved them off, still wearing the baking gloves that covered his tattoos. 

“Gonna check out the roof, need some air.” What he really needed was a cigarette, maybe to chainsmoke five or ten while he thought of all the ways he could improve tomorrow and next week. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going home on week one ( _ how shitty would that be? _ ) but he also knew nothing was guaranteed. He could fuck up tomorrow’s cake so badly that he was the first one “sent home,” which really meant confined to the apartment building for weeks on end, watching the others come and go, win and lose, celebrate and cry.

On the rooftop, he poked around, checking out the space. They weren’t kidding about the gym being tiny, it was one treadmill, a rack of free weights, and a bench. There was a small rooftop garden plot, overgrown with weeds already and unkempt, and a handful of strategically placed ashtrays and butt-cans by the brick balustrade that surrounded the roof’s top. 

Mickey leaned over the railing, and lit up, looking out at the city. Aside from the view from his studio downstairs, he’d never seen Chicago this way, in the golden hour, the last rays of the day catching every reflective surface and setting them on fire with light.

In the quiet air, Mickey could hear the elevator doors sliding open mechanically, and someone stepping out. Probably a PA, checking on him, or another baker looking for some uninterrupted workout time.

“Can I bum a smoke?” The voice surprised Mickey: it was the tall red-headed baker whose workbench was in front of his own, Ian. 

Mickey eyed him critically. “Ain’t you an EMT? Smoking kills, ya know?”

“So I’ve been told, and yet here I am.” Ian smugly settled next to him, looking out. 

Mickey pinched the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth between his fingers tips and offered it to the guy.  _ See how he likes that _ , he thought, a little smug now as well.

But the ginger just bent over, accepting the smoke with his lips from Mickey’s fingertips, and damn, if that wasn’t one of the hottest things Mickey’d ever seen. 

_ Chill, keep it in your pants _ , he reminded himself.  _ Just because Byron’s out of your life doesn’t mean you need to start cruising.  _ And even if he was looking for a new fuck, this Ian, this weird, in-his-space, red-headed, well-muscled, probably-Northside, almost-certainly-straight baker wouldn’t be his pick.

He still watched the man smoke, out of the corner of his eye, as they both ostensibly took in the last moments of the sunset, azure covering the sky behind them, crawling upward to slip across the atmosphere. 

There was something about the way he brought the cigarette to his lips, sucking in the smoke, then holding it deep in his lungs, looking a little green around the gills-  _ ah _ . 

“You don’t actually smoke, do you?” Mickey asked nonchalantly. 

“Uh, not so much anymore,” the guy admitted warily. “Weed, sure, but not cigarettes since I was kid.”

“Then why the fuck’d you waste my smoke?” He had a limited supply, it wasn’t like they were allowed to run down to the corner store to grab what they needed. Supply runs were done weekly, from proscribed lists of options. 

There was red creeping up Ian’s neck and cheeks, and Mickey watched the flush, captivated with the way it transformed the freckled skin, suddenly imagining how he’d look in the throes of passion-

“Just wanted to talk to you, I guess.” The words were quiet, unexpected, leaving Mickey more confused yet.

“Me? Why the fuck you wanna talk to me for?”

They had turned, no longer looking off into the distance but standing facing each other, Mickey’s left hand on the railing, the man’s right mirroring him. 

In a flash that felt like a physical spark, their eyes met, and Mickey  _ got  _ it. Ian was hitting on him. In the most obvious, middle-school way, no less. When you like someone and all you want to do is talk to them, and you end up saying the dumbest shit. Mickey understood, could even empathize, even though it wasn’t gonna happen.

“What you said, today… about your oven,” Ian finally spoke, nearly startling Mickey out of the watchful daze he’d been in, just observing the man’s face, the micro-expressions that had passed over his flesh as he considered and rejected responses.

“Ey, don’t knock until you’ve had to depend on that shitty oven to heat the house in the middle of winter.”

“I’m not, I’m not!” Ian protested, reaching out with that right hand, almost as if he was going to put it over Mickey’s as a form of supplication. He caught the gesture, contained it, keeping their hands close, though not yet touching. “I grew up the same, is all.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah? You know what that’s like, no heat?”

“I know what it’s like to steal, beg, borrow, and still not have enough. My parents were- they are- useless, so my older sister pretty much raised us.”

“Us? You got a herd or a family?”

“Six kids. We did sound like a herd, I guess, and my brother Carl sure smells like one,” a smile cracked Ian’s freckled face, and Mickey had to hold his cheeks still, forcefully resist returning the smile.  _ Wasn’t gonna happen. _

Mickey reached up, thumbing at his nose in discomfort.  _ Maybe the guy wasn’t Northside. But still. No chance. _

“Cool story, bro. I gotta go practice for tomorrow. Get your own smoke next time, kay?”

The red-head watched him go, just offering a tiny wave as the elevator doors slid shut, blocking Mickey’s view of his face. All he saw was a large hand, surprisingly long fingers, waving him goodbye. 

Fuckin’ weirdo. Fuckin’ hot weirdo. Hot weirdo hitting on him. Mickey needed to shut that shit down, fast. He was plenty out of the closet, but maybe not casting-loving-glances-across-the-tent-on-international-TV levels of out.


	17. Week 1 - Showstopper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lust is a feeling, too, my king.

The next morning call was at 7am again, and today Mickey was closer to the front of the line for makeup. He ended up in Cole’s chair once more, which was ok. The guy’d made him look good enough last time. No need to fuck with something that wasn’t broken.

“So my guy, anyone in here catch your eye?”

“‘Scuse me?” Mickey wasn’t sure he’d heard Cole correctly. 

“Ladies, men, non binary pals. It’s a small cast and crew and there are bound to be some feelings erupting. Spring is in the air, after all.” Cole said all this while delicately dotting a different cream from the previous day onto Mickey’s face. Once he’d finish the dotting process, he took a beauty blender ( _ yeah, Mickey knew what a beauty blender was, he had a fucking sister, ok? _ ) and began to sweep the cream around. It felt cold on his skin, and a little tingly, but not in a bad way.

“I ain’t here to find true love,” Mickey said gruffly, trying not to move his face too much.

“Who said anything about true love? Lust is a feeling, too, my king. There. Perfection,” Cole declared, stepping back to let Mickey look.

“Same old ugly mug,” he grumbled, but he was secretly pleased with how he looked.

“One day you’ll let me put eyeliner on you and then we’ll watch everyone swoon at your feet,” Cole teased. At least, Mickey was  _ fairly  _ sure he was teasing.

* * *

  
  


In the tent, all the bakers were standing at the ready, waiting for Mel and Sue to do their usual song and dance explaining the challenge to the viewers. The bakers already knew it, had known it since the day the email went out listing all the week’s challenges. Many of them had been practicing this very recipe since that day.

“One challenge remains before we discover who will be the first star baker, and who will be eliminated,” Sue began, stating the obvious.

“Morning lovely bakers,” Mel offered. “Welcome to your first Showstopper day. Now today, Mary and Paul would like you to make a mirror glaze cake.” 

She said mirror like mirah, with no final ‘r.’

“It should be so shiny that Paul can look into and say ‘You’re looking gorgeous.’” She added an extravagant purr to the end.

Sue took over. “The cake should be a genoise sponge, and the mirror glaze should cover the entirety of the cake. You’ve got three hours, so…”

Mickey stopped listening, just waited for the only word that matters.

“Bake!”

They were off. Mickey had a firm plan for his cake, but it was tight on time. 


	18. Week 1 - Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once I find her.

The judges, hosts, cameras, and assorted crew had wound their way to Tony for the first interview.

“Tony, hello, what have you got there?” Sue took point, maybe trying to find some common butch ground to stand on.

“Hi guys.” Tony gave them a toothy white grin. “It’s a black and blue mirror glaze cake.”

“Yes, the American police colors, of course. How do the guys at the station like your baking, Tony?” Paul asked.

“Ah, they don’t mind so much, or make fun too bad. It’s as much as a part of who I am as my job. I learned to bake from my mom, and now that she’s gone, I want to cook for my wife. Once I find her.” He turned, staring into the camera as if he could somehow see the viewers, and potentially his future wife amongst them. It was quite creepy, but luckily Mary jumped in.

“And what flavors will you be pairing the cake with?”

“Right, ok, well inside it’s berries and cream, blueberry and blackberry flavorings.”

“Flavourings? Not fresh or frozen fruit?” Paul’s brows were deeply furrowed in concern.

“I tried that at first, but the fruit gave off too much liquid and messed up my genoise. I know it’s not ideal, but I think it’ll work out.”

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely, Tony,” Mary offered as the group moved away to the next interview.


	19. Week 1 - Candace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, ma’am, sorry, you can’t touch the judges.

Over at Candace’s workspace, the judges were carefully eyeing the multiple open bottles of champagne scattered about.

“Are we celebrating? Is it New Years and I missed the memo?” Mel asked Sue sotto voce.

“I didn’t get a memo, but let’s play along,” Sue snarked back, picking up an empty bottle and upending it, waiting for a lonely last drop to drip into her open mouth. The cameras loved that shit, all the extemporaneous humor, Mickey knew as he watched from his corner. It still felt weird and awkward to him.

“Well, I think we all know you’re flavoring your cream with champagne, Candace, but what about your cakes?” Paul began.

“Toasted sugar and a hint of strawberries, total luxury flavors.” Candace was slurring a little, hands waving about too freely, and she nearly elbowed Mary, prevented only by the old woman’s spry movement out of the firing line.

“Are you worried about the berries overpowering the champagne flavor at all?” Paul quizzed.

“Noooo, I’m not. Paul, are you single?” Candace had placed one thin hand on Paul’s crossed forearm: he stared at her hand in horror.

“Uh, ma’am, sorry, you can’t touch the judges.” A P.A. stepped up and delivered the proclamation as if she’d been preparing for this moment. 

“Don’t be silly! Paul doesn’t mind, does he?” Candace leaned forward, possibly trying to show all of the United States her cleavage, but the P.A. took her by the shoulders, moving her back behind her workbench to her mark.

“The judges may touch you, in encouragement or as a handshake, but bakers may not initiate a touch with the judges or hosts,” the P.A. repeated loudly, for everyone’s benefit.

That probably explained why all the baker’s on previous seasons were so dumbfounded to receive handshakes, Mickey mused.

Having reset Candace’s interview, Mary had redirected the line of questioning to something Mickey hadn’t been able to hear, all he got was Candace’s response.

“After my husband Ned left me for an underaged rent boy, I started baking to cope. And drinking. Turns out I’m good!” She gave a light, lilting, laugh. “Good at both. I would  _ never  _ bribe the judges with alcohol.” She made a production of handing Mary a champagne flute full of fizzy liquid. 

She must actually be good at baking, to make it on the show, but this bullshit couldn’t and wouldn’t fly around here, Mickey guessed. Too many risks to let drunk ladies near the ovens.

“Cheers,” Paul concluded, and walked off. Mickey couldn’t see his face, but the set of his shoulders was easy to read- Paul Hollywood was majorly pissed off. 


	20. Week 1 - Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I start over?

The next baker under scrutiny bravely offered Paul a sunny smile, not seeming even slightly intimidated by the gruff man’s blank expression. 

Mary took point, trying to deflect the attention from Paul, perhaps. “Hullo, Trevor. What a pretty assortment you have there!” She was indicating a selection of bowls of fruit piled neatly on his worktop. There was a bowl of Montmorency cherries, one of Eureka lemons, and one of Finger limes. 

“I’m working with the flavors of sherbert today, because it’s my favorite spring treat,” Trevor explained, still with a grin on his face.

Mickey was finding that grin more and more annoying the longer it went unchanged, but he tried to focus on his own baking.

“Now, is it sherbet or sherbert?” Sue asked Mel, seriously.

“Actually-” Mel began, but Paul interrupted, having softened slightly.

“Both are wrong- it’s sorbet.”

“Quite right,” Mary concurred.

“Ok, then it’s  _ sorbet  _ flavored,” Trevor said, a bit less cheerily. “I just like showing people I care with food. Not like a kink, though. Not that I’m against people of size! I just, fuck. Can I start over?” Paul looked at the camera-person, who nodded wearily. “I’m doing a rainbow mirror glaze for the LGBT flag.”

“A cause near and dear to my heart,” Sue said.

Mel put her hand over her own heart in solidarity, and Mary smiled.

“Sorbet and rainbows? Could get a bit too garish, best be careful.” Paul concluded, before the group moved off.

_Garish, more like clownish._ Colors were fun, but if you just fuckin poured all of them on a cake, it’s a hot mess, like a preschooler’s finger painting, Mickey judged from where he was busy adding the gelatin to his own glaze mixture.


	21. Week 1 - Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galaxies in your eyes.

This time when the crowd flowed towards him, Mickey was somewhat more prepared to speak. 

“Mickey! My gorgeous gloved guy, what’ve you got there?” 

  
Mickey’s eyebrows neared his hairline at Mel’s alliterative appellation for him, but he tried to play nice.

“It’s a play on my favorite cookie, a Moonpie. But-” He could see Paul’s face, ready to dig at him about using too much sweetness and wanted to forestall the criticism. “-I’m using dark chocolate for the cake, dutch process cocoa.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to look concerned. “Dutch process? Are you certain that’s wise?”

_ He would not roll his eyes at Mary-Fucking-Berry. He would not roll his eyes at this grand dame of baking. He would  _ **_not_ ** _. _

“Yeah, at first I thought it was too much too. But I’m doing a sweet cream in between the layers, and the ganache coating is dark chocolate too. The mirror glaze is pure sugar, and it all kinda works. Bitter but sweet at the same time.”

“Sounds a bit like you in a cake, Mickey,” Sue quipped and Mickey stared at her, checking to see if she was kidding. She seemed to be. 

Seeing that he was wrongfooted by the comparison, Paul made the save. “And what color mirror glaze have you gone with?”

Mickey grimaced. He knew he couldn’t make it a true surprise, but he’d wanted the effect to stun them. Too late now.

“It’s a galaxy effect, with edible glitter in it.”

“Galaxies in your eyes, Mickey,” Sue sang at him, and this time Mickey did frown and step back.  _ Why was she saying all that, about him being bitter and sweet, and commenting on his eyes? _

“That sounds very eye-catching, Mickey, I cannot wait,” Mary closed, and the judges moved on. 

Sue lingered for a moment, though. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Nah,” he waved a hand, trying to make her apology go away. “Just not used to compliments. My cakes, sure, but not me, so much.”

“Really? You’re a fine looking fellow, might need to find some new friends if they’re not telling you that.”

He managed a tight smile, and she departed.

_ Fuck, the whole conversation had put him behind on his timing and now he’d just have to hope he could get the whole cake done in time.  _

He ducked behind the bench to grab a cake pan, and when he looked up, Ian was peering down at him.

“The fuck do you want, man,” he hissed.

“Wanted to see if you really have galaxies in your eyes,” Ian said, with a tiny smirk curling up one side of his mouth. It looked good on him, but Mickey pushed that thought away, standing quickly.

“Keep wastin’ your time lookin’, I gotta cakepan to line.” If Mickey kept his eyes down on the pan as he rubbed the inside with softened butter to thwart the other baker, that was his own business, especially since it also hid his flaming cheeks. 

“Ok, Mick. I’ll check again later.”

When Mickey opened his mouth to retort, the red-head had already turned back to his own workbench. Vengeful, Mickey flicked a pinch of edible silver glitter in the other man’s direction. Most of it drifted harmlessly to the floor, but a few specks made it to his mid-back, and lower.

Without thinking, Mickey drew his thumb across his lips in his old anxious gesture, only realizing at the last moment that he’d just wiped a line of the same silver across his face. He rubbed at his face roughly with a hand towel, scowling, as he went back to his notes.


	22. Week 1 - Showstopper Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That bitch could bake.

The judges began the rounds yet again, making Mickey realize that they had interviewed bakers during the Signature and Showstopper, as well as judged both rounds with individual feedback. That meant that every episode involved five or six different interactions with the judges. He wasn’t sure he was prepared to be that calm on camera every week, but maybe they could just edit out the worst bits?

Mickey just sat, staring at his cake. The longer he waited, the more frustrated he got. Mirror glaze cakes could develop a skin, sort of a fogginess, across the reflective surface if they were left in a place with too much shit in the air, dust, or pollen. And they were in a park in Chicago at the tail end of spring: everyone was sneezing from all the allergens, even inside the tent. If the judges came to him and criticized his cake cause it had fucking pollen on it, he’d definitely flip a table, maybe hurl a pot of boiling sugar on Paul’s too-tan face.

Of course he was near the end of the judging process, because of where his workbench was located in the tent. He’d been eavesdropping on everyone, and there were some clear winners and losers. There was a fall colored [ cake ](https://bakingfanatic.files.wordpress.com/2016/08/orange-and-rum-cake-with-mirror-glaze-5.jpg?w=1024) that didn’t sound like it should have worked, but the rich burnt umbers, saffron, and vermillion caught the light well, plus they reflected the cake’s flavors of chocolate and orange. 

One cake had fallen prey to the trifecta of awful. Caleb’s vegan ingredients had fucked with his timing, so the outside of his [ cake ](https://anibundel.files.wordpress.com/2017/06/benjaminas-white-chocolate-mirror-glaze.jpg?resize=798%2C428) was overly-toasted, and the inside was raw. He hadn’t been able to put on a decent crumb coat, so when he poured the glaze (having substituted agar agar, fuckin _seaweed_ , for the gelatin) over top, it had only clung in odd patches, mostly flowing off the cake entirely. 

Linda, the serious woman in the head scarf, had taken the bold move of making her [ cake ](https://s3.amazonaws.com/secretsaucefiles/photos/images/000/131/842/large/IMG_0629.JPG?1487171370) entirely black on the outside, with a few brushes of gold on top. It was a risk, because the black would show any flaws underneath, but she’d clearly pulled it off. The flavor inside was also a risk: licorice. Paul and Mary seemed perplexed by the inside, but gushed over the appearance. 

One baker’s mirror glaze hadn’t set right. It was his floormate, Jody. He’d made a mistake somewhere, and the glaze on his [ cake ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/WBuMpHD1BLo/maxresdefault.jpg) looked more like a layer of fondant or marzipan. The color was Barbie fucking pink, some tribute to feminism? Mickey stopped listening, writing the man off in his head.

Ian, in front of him, seemed to have found redemption from the burnt caramel in his signature with some berry and herb shit, covered in an opalescent glaze. The [ cake ](https://chelsweets.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/img_7473-2-e1554433356588.jpg) even had little flecks of edible gold. _Fancy asshole._ Mickey glowered at his stupid broad back and well-defined shoulders. 

Now the judges were assessing Trevor’s rainbow mirror glaze [ cake ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/82/2f/01/822f01767d8aa83896768e120060ba57.jpg) . It had come out a little garish, visually. He’d leaned too hard into making the colors bright, and it looked a lot like a clown had vomited on his cake. Mary and Paul seemed to appreciate his flavors inside, but even the camera people kept staring, wide-eyed, at the glazed cake that seemed to sear itself into your eyeballs. _Not appetizing._

One [ cake ](https://img-global.cpcdn.com/recipes/a46a875f49895cc8/751x532cq70/mirror-glaze-cake-recipe-main-photo.jpg) that seemed to surprise the judges was Kassidy’s. She’d gone for an odd color scheme for her mirror glaze, white chocolate, brown, orange, green, and a hint of pink. Some tribute to her military boyfriend’s camouflage, which could have been awful, but strangely seemed to work. Inside, the cake was mint and cream, which risked reminding the judges of toothpaste flavor, if she hadn’t demonstrated tact and restraint by adding basil. It sounded ridiculous, but the judges were shocked and pleased. 

Sheila kept the judges captive for what seemed like an hour, just gabbling on about her family, her ex-husband, her amazing daughter, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, her daughter’s dating life- she just _kept_ talking, barely letting the judges get a word in edgewise. Maybe it was a distraction technique, because her [ cake ](https://www.southernfatty.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/PicMonkey-Collage01-768x287.jpg) looked downright amateurish, even if Mary said the blueberry cake and lemon cream tasted nice. Sheila let out a silly little laugh that sounded fake, but the judges and cameras just moved on. 

The cop, Tony’s, [ cake ](https://res.cloudinary.com/hksqkdlah/image/upload/ar_1:1,c_fill,dpr_2.0,f_auto,fl_lossy.progressive.strip_profile,g_faces:auto,q_auto:low,w_400/v1/ATK%20Kids/Subscription_Boxes_Young_Chefs_Club/2019/03_DIY_Cake_Decorating/Mirror_Cake/Mirror-cake_25x34) was prettier to look at, but his downfall was his use of flavor extracts in lieu of real blueberries and blackberries. The cream he used was straight vanilla, and Mickey sniggered, thinking Tony as a person was as vanilla as they came.

One [ cake ](https://flatheadbeacon.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/05_30_2018_Cake_Deb-Misik.jpg) that had the judges attention was Vee’s purple velvet cake. Mary and Paul were charmed by the unique interior color and the flavor, which was some purple potato from the Philippines, she explained. It gave the cake a deep, rich purple, and her mirror glaze on top was capped with a few fresh edible flowers. Even Mickey was impressed: that bitch could _bake_.

If Candace had been on her own baking show, her [ cake ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/31/43/c5/3143c5d2b637615abb35b207fdd3908d.jpg) would have come off just fine. But instead, she’d gone for the same basic color scheme as Linda, and her cake looked lackluster in comparison. It also seemed as though she’d drunk more champagne than she’d put into the cake, because the judges couldn’t find that flavor at all, and all of her answers to their well-meaning questions about her cake came out slurred and incoherent. Mickey did not envy the editors for that interview.

Fucking finally they came to Mickey’s bench. The pollen hadn’t quite ruined his glaze, but it still looked a bit more viscous than he wanted. Maybe he’d overdone the gelatin? 

He had worried for nothing. Mary, Mel, and Sue all gave a deep inhale of surprise when they got a good look at his [ cake ](http://deliciouslydeclassified.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Intergalactic-Mirror-Cake.jpg). Even Paul was quiet for a moment. The galaxy swirl of colors had worked perfectly, and he hadn’t been too heavy-handed with the glitter, just enough to leave a silvery-trail across the top. 

Inside he’d gone with the Moonpie flavoring, trying not to lean too hard into the sweetness factor. Paul took one bite and smiled, but at first, Mickey wasn’t sure if it was a smile of happiness or of condescension. 

“Mickey.”

Mickey waited to hear the assessment, clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides, behind the bench, where they couldn’t be seen on camera. 

“This is pretty good, actually.” The asshole sounded surprised, but Mickey kept the scowl off of his face as Paul continued. “Your glaze is nice, good use of color and accents. The cream is sweet, but as promised, the cake’s bitterness balances it. Overall, well done.”

Mary agreed, taking another bite. “I’ve always liked a good Moonpie when I was in the states.”

He didn’t get a handshake, but that was ok, they didn’t really have anything negative to say. Mickey felt pretty confident that he was still in the game for another week, not returning to the apartment in ignominy at having been eliminated on week 1. 

Once the judges departed, heading up to the front of the tent to reset for the next phase, Ian turned around and smiled briefly at him. It seemed like a genuine smile, but Mickey was instantly suspicious of the guy. He was competition after all. He also noted with a little thrill that Ian’s eyes had drifted across his face, from meeting his eyes, to his lips, and back up, a little guiltily. The guy was _into_ him. He might be able to work with that, use it somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys I am going to die of cake. Describing cake, etc. Expect LESS cake moving forward.


	23. Week 1 - Star Baker and Who’s Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your shit had to taste like… well, not like shit.

The twelve bakers sat in a line on those stupid, unsteady stools, waiting for the judgement of Mary and Paul, as they deliberated somewhere unseen.

A light spring rain was falling, and the spatters of rain on the top of the tent made quiet conversation impossible; there was nothing to do except sit, reflecting on their sweet successes and abject failures.

Mickey was used to watching at home and being privy to the decision making process: who’d done well, who was in danger, and all that. To suddenly be stuck, with nothing to do but process and feel his fucking feelings was torture. He was pretty sure he was safe, but who could really tell? Maybe he’d fuckin offended Mary somehow and she was back there badmouthing him, saying how he was trash who shouldn’t even have been-

He stopped himself, took a few deep breaths, chewing his lip and letting the pain refocus him. Glancing to his sides, he could see other bakers in various stages of panic, acceptance, anxiety, meditation, and in the case of Candace, deep intoxication. 

“Bakers,” Sue said, “One hell of a first weekend. Congratulations to you all. I’m delighted with my job today, cause I get to announce the very first Star Baker. What you need to know about this person is that they care deeply about many things, and many people in their life. They’re not ones to hide their feelings, so if you’re dating this baker-”

By now Mickey and everyone else had turned to stare at Kassidy, knowing what was coming.

“-they’ll make cakes with your initials on top, and mirror glazes in your trademark camouflage. Our star baker is Kassidy, well done!”

Everyone applauded, smiling. Mickey’s smile was fake, but it existed. He clapped, but his biking gloves muffled the sound, which was fine, cause he didn’t really care who won the week. There wasn’t a cash prize for winning the week, and at the end, the winner wasn’t decided by who’d won the most weeks. It didn’t even matter, all Kassidy got was a stupid little pin to wear for the week and a phone call, on camera. To her boyfriend, most likely.

Mel took over. “So it falls to me to do the slightly more difficult job, and the person that it’s very sad to say goodbye to this week is-”

Everyone was holding their breath around Mickey, though he didn’t dare look around at them.

“-Caleb. We’re very sorry, Caleb.”

Mickey’s shoulders dropped and suddenly he felt a huge weight lift from him. He was through to Week 2. There was still a whole hug-goodbye scene where all the bakers had to make nice and wish Caleb well (but really, raw and vegan and burnt? It couldn’t have been a huge surprise.)

In the baker’s friendly huddle, Caleb had fat tears rolling down his face, belying Mickey’s belief that he couldn’t have really been surprised at his elimination.

“I just thought they’d value innovation and creativity,” the man kept repeating to everyone who patted his shoulder in friendly commiseration.

Mickey could have told him, innovation and creativity were secondary. Your shit had to taste like… well, not like shit.


	24. Week 1 - Downtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m here to bake cakes and get paid. That’s it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some pre-Gallavich verbal sparring :)

After the ceremonial awarding of Star Baker and the elimination of Caleb (couldn’t have happened to a better guy, in Mickey’s perspective. Fuckin’  _ vegan  _ cupcakes) the bakers headed back across the park to the apartment building. Mickey already knew he’d be making only a brief stop in his place to grab a cigarette and a beer before heading back to the roof. He could only hope not too many other people (and no annoying redheads) had the same idea.

But by the time he got up there, there were two small clusters of people chatting, and Svetlana stood alone by the end, staring out. 

Mickey surveyed the space, deciding he could probably hide behind the workout space, if he didn’t draw attention to himself. He snuck over there, and lit up, inhaling the nicotine deeply with relief, popping the cap on the bottle of beer with one hand. He planned to enjoy the time alone. 

When he heard the elevator door slide open, he braced himself for having his time interrupted, but nothing of the sort happened. The two groups of people had coalesced into one larger group, and the new person must have joined them, because when Mickey emerged from his hiding spot, there was a lively chatter going. 

“I like the view.”

Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin. He was getting soft if he was letting fucking bakers sneak up on him. Of course it was Ian, the guy who’d fucking tried to stare into his eyes.  _ Was he about to start hitting on Mickey some more? What did the guy really want? _

“Sure, nice fuckin sky alright,” he agreed cautiously, taking a deep swallow of beer.

“Not as nice as your eyes though.” The guy was leaning on the brick railing, cool as could be, hips angled towards Mickey in a kind of offering. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, refusing to play. He didn’t scope out the guy’s package, he didn’t make eye contact, just took another deep inhalation from his cigarette and stared out over the city.

“Ok, I know that one was bad, lemme try again?” Ian had stepped in closer to Mickey, they were within arm’s reach of each other.

Mickey reached out and put his hand, wrapped around the bottle, up nearly but not quite pressed against Ian’s chest. “Man, what the fuck are you doin?”

Ian cocked his head, considering Mickey, but didn’t speak.

“What, you think we’re gonna be boyfriends or some shit? I’m here to bake cakes and get paid. That’s it.”

Ian reached out one freckled hand, and Mickey flexed, pulling his head and neck back and away. “You still have some glitter on your face,” Ian explained, totally ignoring Mickey’s little rant. Slowly now, telegraphing his moves, he brushed his long fingers over Mickey’s cheek, sweeping the offending substance away.

“There, got it, see?” He held up the pads of his fingers for Mickey’s inspection. 

Mickey just grimaced at the swath of shine on display, distracting himself with another pull from the bottle and a glance at the city’s skyline. 

“I’m not really looking for a  _ boyfriend  _ either. Had a few too many of those, too much drama, too needy. But maybe we could still be…” He grinned, letting the words trail off. The unfinished sentence hung in the air between them, as if Ian were daring Mickey to complete the thought.

His eyes ranged over the freckled face. Freckles usually made guys look young, or dumb, or both, but somehow on Gallagher they looked- they looked like someone had deliberately placed each one with a thought to how they would affect the final aesthetic. He bit his lip and glanced down, afraid his thoughts would somehow be broadcast on his face. 

Decided, he spoke, breaking the weird silence that had begun to stretch between them. “No thanks, Orphan Annie. I’m good. Maybe try the fireman, he looks like he’ll bend over for any swinging dick that walks by.”

Mickey turned on his heel and left before he could have second thoughts. He walked, carefully, not hurrying, but deliberately, past the large group of bakers still laughing and joking in the middle of the rooftop. He stayed in the shadows, but he saw Vee notice him, and start to open her mouth, so he gave a curt nod, and punched the button to recall the elevator. There were two people leaning close together in the shadows, but he didn’t pry. Last thing he wanted tonight was to socialize. 

Downstairs, in his apartment, he noticed how quiet it was.    
  
Quiet was good. He could get used to quiet.

\---

The next four days were downtime, where the bakers could rest up, practice bakes, plan recipes, workout, or whatever normal people did while locked in one building with no social media. 

Mickey made sure to avoid Ian on the roof and in the communal eating area. Everytime Ian came in, Mickey was just leaving. If Ian was already there, Mickey’s plans would change. It was awkward as fuck, but he didn’t want to be tempted to go back on his choice. 

Ian was competition. 

He was here to bake and get paid, not laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the end of week 1! OMG it only took nearly a month to get here.  
> Week 2 is shorter, only about 10 chapters.  
> There will be a brief pause before Week 2 begins, partially because I have another project at hand. ;)


	25. Week 2: The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Southside rules.

It was the night before the next “week” of filming was due to start, and Mickey was back on the roof, chain smoking despite the drizzle. He’d made his recipes for the week a few times, and while the flavors were good, even daring, for him, the look of the things was letting him down. He wasn’t a fucking  _ artist _ . He knew enough not to use molds and pre-bought shit, but making food look pretty was just never going to be his strong suit.

He’d spent so much time ducking and dodging Gallagher this week that it felt like he’d effectively tried to quit smoking, against his will, of course. But every time he came to the roof, there the guy was, lifting weights and grunting,  _ loudly _ or some shit. 

Mickey had tried to come up first thing in the morning but of course, there he was, meditating with Jody and a few of the women as the sun rose. At midday, Gallagher’d been on the roof sunbathing with Candace. They were both topless, and Mickey was probably scarred for life. Around dinner time, Mickey had watched a whole group of bakers enter the elevator, laughing, planning to come carouse on the roof for a while and sip wine. ( _ Obviously Mickey declined the invite. _ ) He’d really hoped that late at night and in the rain would be a safe time. 

“Miss me?”

Mickey spun, already knowing who it was, reminding his fists to stay put and not punch the motherfucker out. His heart raced: how did this asshole keep sneaking up on him? He’d been certain the roof was empty and he hadn’t heard the elevator bell either. 

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Ian was leaning on the balustrade again, that cocky lean that showed off his shoulders, waist, and long-ass legs. “Been trying to see you for days, Mick. Finally took the fire escape up.”

“Mickey. Like the fuckin mouse,” he corrected. 

_ The fucking fire escape. Of course.  _

“Mmm, nah.” Ian shook his head slowly. “I like Mick better. Don’t think anyone’s every described you as mousy, unless they meant you were-”

Mickey interrupted him. “-You better not be gettin ready to say shit about my height, or we’re gonna have a problem here.”

“Oh, a problem?  _ We’re _ gonna have a problem? We already have a problem, which is you’re fucking avoiding me.”

“Maybe I just don’t like your face, you ever think of that?” 

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.” Ian sighed deeply, sounding totally fake. “You definitely like my face.”

Mickey didn’t reply, but he didn’t leave either. Maybe Ian thought he had, maybe he didn’t care, but he didn’t seem inclined to press his advantage. Ian had half-turned away from Mickey and pulled something from his pocket, tossing whatever it was into his mouth, dry swallowing. That caught Mickey’s attention, and not in a good way.

“You a fuckin’ druggie?”

The look Ian gave him was stunned and utter confusion.

“Ey, I know what it means when you sneak pills outta yer pocket and swallow em’ without water. Means you’re a pro. You a pro at takin’ pills, Gallagher?”

Now, really, Mickey was just trying to mess with him, get back at him for the dig about Mickey watching him all the time. But Ian’s response, the slowly creeping horror was pretty comical too.

“It’s a- it’s a breath mint,” he stammered. “Fresh breath, good manners, heard of it?”

It was Mickey’s turn to throw a line back, squinting his eyes a bit. “Mmm, no. Try again.”

Ian’s face fell, and he seemed to be mulling over a decision. Finally, he spoke. “Southside rules, right?”

Mickey just cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean, you’re not gonna snitch on me, right? If I tell you something?”

“I’m no rat,” Mickey replied indignantly. “But why tell me at all?”

“It’s-  _ fuck _ . This is hard.”

Mickey waited, taking short sucks of his cigarette and wiping the rain from his forehead.

“I’m bipolar, and I take medication. Low lows, and high highs. Sometimes, the meds stop working, so I need someone I trust to keep an eye on me, just in case I start acting… you know. Crazy.” He made a little back-and-forth gesture with his hand.

“And you figure I’m a good person to trust here? How do you know I won’t sell you out in a minute?”

“Southside rules,” Ian replied simply.

“An’ what if I go home this week? Who’s gonna watch your ass then?”

“I saw what you made so far, you’re not going home yet. But if you do… I guess Trevor? He seems nice enough, a solid guy.”

“Fucking Trevor and his rainbow pride shit,” Mickey derided.

Ian grinned at him, hair and eyebrows sparkling with raindrops. “Hey, some of us are proud of who we are.”

“I ain’t fuckin hiding, if that’s what you mean. Just don’t feel the need to make it my defining personality trait. I have an actual personality, unlike fucking  _ Trevor _ .”

“Then you can’t go home and leave me to fucking Trevor, it’s that simple.”

Mickey huffed out a breath, wondering when they’d gotten so close together, they were within arm’s reach, yet again. He stretched out one hand, unable to help himself, reaching up to ruffle Gallagher’s wet hair that was now sticking to his forehead in dark locks.

“I ain’t gonna tell anyone. But you look like a fuckin’ drowned rat.” There was weird electricity dancing in the damp air between them. Touching the guy’s hair had been a mistake- it was softer than it looked, and now Mickey’s hands longed to touch more, feel more. Maybe taste more. Those types of thoughts were dangerous.

He stubbed out his cigarette, ignoring how Gallagher was staring at him openly, warmly, watching his mouth. Without a word, he turned his back and headed to the elevator. There were two people deep in the shadows again, so he couldn’t see who they were, only their profiles. A man and a woman, muscles and fluffy hair, twined together in a way that part of Mickey deeply envied. A silly laugh snuck out from the couple.  _ Where had Mickey heard that laugh already? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not returning to daily chapters quite yet. But that's also because the chapters are getting longer; I'm relearning how to write more than mini vignettes every day 😂😂😂


	26. Week 2: Signature Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 🍑🍑🍑

In the morning, Mickey once again was last in line for the MUA’s chair, having been stuck holding the elevator for Jody, who was limping in a strangely familiar way. Granted, the magic that Cole had was worth the wait, but still. Maybe when Mickey won this shit, he’d get first dibs. 

Being last had a few advantages; namely, he was able to sneak behind the trailer and smoke surreptitiously, no one looking for him. He was right below the window of the makeup trailer and could hear everything said inside. 

Most of the conversations were banal, pure trivialities or complaints. A few bakers stayed silent the whole time, despite Cole’s wise cracks and kindness. Some prattled on about their lives back home or their present anxieties. Then Mickey heard a familiar sigh…

“Morning, sunshine! Or maybe I should call you firefly?”

“That’s a new one, actually, Cole.”

“Alright, we’ll try it out for a few days and see how it feels then. Any gossip to gab?”

“Yeah, actually. How do you know if a guy likes you?”

Mickey held his breath, just listening. 

“Ohhh, honey, that’s complicated. You like him?”

“Yeah, but I think he kinda hates me.”

“Spill it. Who’s caught your attention and given you the ol’ hot and cold game? Tell me it’s not Jody- that greaseball hasn’t washed his hair since the Clinton administration.”

Ian gave a snorting laugh at Cole’s criticism of Jody. “Nah, not Jody.”

“Trevor, then? He seems kinda toppy to me, and so do you, so maybe not the best fit.”

“Not Trevor, and not Tony, or even Paul, before you ask.”

“We’re running out of candidates here. Unless it’s a certain aggressively attractive baker with, shall we say, piercing blue eyes?”

Ian didn’t reply verbally, so Mickey had to infer he’d agreed somehow.

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me but the the camera keeps catchin’ him staring at you. And it’s ain’t your macarons he’s drooling over, trust me.”

“You really think so?”  _ Why was Gallagher so hung up on whether Mickey liked him? What game was he playing? Was that even true about the cameras? It couldn’t be true, could it? So what if he liked to look at the guy, it didn’t mean anything. _

Before Mickey could hear Cole’s response, he noticed footsteps approaching, so he quickly dropped his smoke and let his usual indifferent mask slide over his face.

\---

“Welcome, bakers, to biscuit week. We’re using the universal language of biscuits to encompass all sorts of goodies, like cookies, scones, and so on. Today Paul and Mary would like to meet you in an American biscuit. Well, in a dozen biscuits. They can be sweet or savory, the representation can be metaphorical, rather than literal, but must include some use of herbs. Or  _ ‘erbs _ , as you say here in the States. You have one hour, on your marks, get set, bake!”

All the bakers already knew their plans, so the first few minutes were spent with various people gathering ingredients, checking equipment, and preheating ovens.

Mickey found his items and double checked his list. It was all there, all he had to do was follow it. Biscuits with herbs. Savory, and a little sweet, too. Cause he really did like sweetness. He quickly assembled the base dough and kneaded it, letting a little gluten develop, to help the biscuits keep their shape, before setting it aside to rest very briefly. Because his additions had so much liquid, it helped the final product to let the dough prove slightly.

The cans on his table mocked him slightly: he knew it would have been better to find fresh peaches, but in spring in Chicago, there were none to be had for love or money. ( _ Or drugs. Mickey had tried every avenue available to him _ .) After a swift chiffonade of the basil ( _ that at least was fresh _ ), he popped the cans open and drained the syrup off of the fruit. He did a rough chop of the peaches, not wanting anyone to bite into a biscuit and come up with a mouth full of half a peach. Finally, he added the fruit and herbs to the dough he’d prepared.

Instead of going with a muffin tin, and looking sourly at the bakers around him who’d gone that route, he cut the dough into half, then each half into halves, and then repeated the process until he had 12 roughly equal portions. Not satisfied, however, he pulled out a small digital scale and began weighing each portion, pinching off bits and adding to others until all the dough balls were the same weight, like some otherworldly OCD-version of himself.

Having gotten each portion nearly identical, he shaped them slightly, patting at the tacky, wet dough until each of the dozen  [ biscuits ](https://wawona.com/2020/peach-and-basil-breakfast-biscuits-crumpets/) sat neatly in rows. This time he had a better idea of how hot the oven needed to be, and once he’d slid the tray in, he crouched down on the floor, staring into the oven like it was primetime TV.

After a while, his knees began to protest, so he stood, starting to clean up his bench, glancing around at the other bakers’ efforts. At the bench in front of him, Ian was hard at work grating a huge block of cheese that Mickey could smell despite the distance. Sheila, across the aisle, was mixing a huge bowl with what looked like cocoa powder, Candace was sipping a dark brown liquid that Mickey could only assume was alcoholic. Kassidy, last week’s star baker, had a saute pan on the stovetop, and was frying what appeared to be bacon. 

Ian finally seemed to have finished turning the block of cheese into a pile of shreds, and now was sitting on his wooden stool, sipping a bottle of water. Mickey eyed him warily, checking to make sure no cameras were stealthily pointed in his direction. Some intuition seemed to have clued Gallagher in, because he turned, saluting Mickey with his water bottle.

“So what’s cooking in Chez Mickey tonight? I’m really wondering how you put all that cursing and grumpiness into a biscuit. Like, did you use activated charcoal to make all your biscuits as black as your…. hair?”

Mickey could have sworn the guy had been about to say ‘as black as his  _ heart _ .’ He played it off though, scoffing. “F-, uh, heck no. Basil and peach. What about you?”

Ian’s eyes lit up. “Oh, no. We are  _ not  _ just moving past that- why are basil and peaches the best way to represent who you are in a food, Mick?”

He grimaced, feeling that incriminating flush on his neck. “Dunno, man. Just picked whatever would taste good.”

“Bullshit. You have a scheme. Gimme a sec and I’ll figure it out.” Ian made a show up staring at the roof of the tent and thinking, theatrically tapping one finger on his chin, before miming inspiration. “Ok, I figured out the peaches. But the basil has me stumped.”

Mickey truly  _ doubted  _ he had figured out the peaches. It was a tongue-in-cheek joke for himself and what he considered his best asset. Before dating Byron, he’d spent a lot of time on Grindr, and the number one emoji he got was  🍑.  _ Might as well give the guy a hint… _

“Basil’s the herb of kings. Aromatic, represents both love and hate. Felt right.”

Ian was nodding thoughtfully, seeming to be serious for once. Mickey hoped they’d moved past the peaches, so he wouldn’t have to pull out his cover story. No such luck, though.

“And the peaches? If you put that much thought into the herb, I’m expecting a full dissertation on why peaches represent you.” Ian raised one red eyebrow, and Mickey knew what he  _ thought _ . And what Ian thought was the truth, no matter how much of a cliche it was. 

“Dude, peaches are sweetness. I like sweet things, it’s simple.”

Those green eyes just kept staring at him, drawing out an awkward silence that Mickey felt compelled to fill. “Plus, peaches are about wish fulfillment, satisfaction, and staying in the present. Kinda my mantra for being here.”

“Huh, ok. You might wanna practice that some more before you have to say it on camera, or everyone is gonna think you made biscuits based on your ass.”

Mickey flipped him off, and they both shared a laugh. 

“Alright, asshole. What’s that mountain of cheese got to do with you?”

“You don’t think I’m mature and full bodied?”

Mickey frowned at the flirtation, but Ian pressed on.

“Nah, I’ve just got a goofy sense of humor, everyone calls me cheesy.”

“That’s lame as shit. What herb did you use, cactus?” He only meant to imply that Ian was weird, but the taller man got an odd look in his eyes, before reciting.

“ ‘ _ There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember, _ ’ ” Ian seemed to be quoting someone or something, using a formal tone. 

“You made biscuits that represent your shitty sense of humor and thinkin about shit from the past? Depressing, man.”

“What can I say? I’m not always the bundle of laughs you see before you, Mick.”

The penny dropped, and Mickey understood in a sudden flash. Ian’s  [ biscuits ](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/cheese-rosemary-biscuits) were about his bipolar, carefully coded in the language of flavor and taste. 

A timer began its annoying beeping, and Ian turned to his own workbench. 

Mickey stared at his back for a moment, before busying himself with the presentation tray he’d brought. It was cheap, but at least he had something to use that wasn’t broken, like everything he’d grown up with.


	27. Week 2: Signature Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck that guy, for thinking Mickey didn’t know words. Or couldn’t look them up, including how to pronounce them correctly, cause he didn’t want to look like the uneducated loser he really was on international television.

As ever, the time ran out before Mickey really felt ready or confident in what he’d made. He stood, lost in thinking of all the things he should have done, more decorations on top, more designs on the platter, maybe an entirely different recipe. But time was up. He just had to sit on the wobbly wooden stool and listen as everyone got judged. 

The first few judge interactions were pretty boring, and Mickey zoned out. Until they got to Vee. She’d made a chili and lime  [ biscuit ](https://www.dallasnews.com/food/recipes/2016/05/04/kent-rathbun-s-ancho-chile-lime-biscuits/) that was overly spicy, making Mary’s delicately lined face flush and her eyes water. 

Paul Hollywood wasn’t too into it either. “The heat overwhelms the lime, it needs more balance. Texture’s not bad though.”

Vee’s face was brave as she stood and took the criticism, but Mickey could see her twisting the edge of her apron in restless, unhappy fingers. He knew that feeling all too well.

Next in line for judging was Trevor. Mickey didn’t have a clear idea of the guy’s personality, aside from his blatant pride in his identity. Trevor had made some pretentious shit, a sweet  [ scone ](https://www.bakefromscratch.com/fig-walnut-goat-cheese-thyme-scones-thyme-glaze/) with goat cheese, thyme, fig, and walnut. His explanation to the judges was weirdly thin, like he didn’t actually have any connection to what he’d made.

“I like making things that are unexpected. When we think about cheese, thyme and walnut, we think savory, but I wanted to make a sweet version.”

Sue asked the obvious question. “Are you an unexpected person then, Trevor?” 

He ducked his head, and probably should have been blushing, but Mickey didn’t see any hint of true physical embarrassment. It was like he was performing a role, and the whole thing rubbed Mickey the wrong way for no good reason.

The judges liked his scone, because of course two old British experts would love a  _ scone _ . Both Mary and Paul lavished Trevor with praise before moving on. 

Praise, but not a handshake, Mickey noted with no small amount of satisfaction.

The baker who got a handshake was a surprise to Mickey; Jody had made a  [ cookie ](https://www.ediblemontereybay.com/recipes/desserts/brown-butter-bay-laurel-cookies/) with bay and laurel that the judges couldn’t stop taking bites of. Usually, Mary and Paul would take one or two bites from two items on a tray, just enough to ascertain the texture, flavor, and consistency of the baker’s products. But this time, Mary ate a whole cookie, and Paul ate two, before wordlessly stretching out a hand for Jody to shake. 

Mickey eyed the pony-tailed man with suspicion. If he could make a cookie and get a handshake, he might actually be real competition.

Ian’s cheddar and rosemary  [ biscuit ](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/cheese-rosemary-biscuits) was a little dry, leaving the judges parched, sipping water off-camera before they pronounced judgement. Good flavors, but the ratios were a little off. 

One baker made a total misstep: Kassidy. Mickey had been watching her with curiosity all morning, as she first fried bacon and then  _ didn’t  _ incorporate the bacon into her biscuit. She made a plain dough, and then right before judging, poured a parsley and bacon  [ jam ](https://www.hallmarkchannel.com/home-and-family/recipes/biscuits-and-bacon-jam) over top. The judges hammered her for not truly fulfilling the brief, even as they said the biscuit was adequate and the jam tasty. 

Linda went with a classic lemon, thyme, and poppy seed  [ cookie ](https://www.bbonline.com/recipes/halcyon-2680.html) that the judges seemed content with. It kept her safe, even if it didn’t get a handshake. Svetlana was also in the safe range with an apricot tarragon  [ cookie ](https://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/apricot-tarragon-cocktail-cookies) . 

Candace once again raided the liquor cabinet for her rum, apple cider, and rosemary crumb  [ cake ](https://www.bakefromscratch.com/rum-apple-cider-rosemary-crumb-cake/) . Paul and Mary had a long debate about whether cake was truly a biscuit, ending up on the side of ‘not really.’ Candace didn’t seem the least dismayed, but Mickey did notice a slight shake to her hands as she sat on her stool, smoothing her slacks across his legs. 

She wasn’t the only baker who’d gone in that direction; Sheila had also made a cake, but hers was a rich flourless chocolate  [ cake ](https://dinexdesign.com/blog/flourless-chocolate-cake-with-herbs-de-provence) with herbs de provence. Tasty, but it didn’t fulfill the brief, so no handshake for her. 

Another lackluster performance was Tony’s sage, walnut, and cheese  [ biscuit ](https://www.kerrygoldusa.com/recipes/dubliner-cheese-biscuits-sage-walnuts/) , which fell prey to the same issue as Ian’s biscuit. Both were too dry. 

The judges made sure to point out that, had Tony served his biscuit with a freshly whipped butter, the issue would have been negated. Internally, Mickey wanted to roll his eyes at the idea of serving  _ freshly whipped butter _ as an accompaniment, but he still took note. A questionable bake could be saved by the right addition at the last minute.

Once again, he was the final baker to face the judges. Whoever had placed him on this back workbench might have thought he could take the pressure of waiting the longest, week after week, but he was starting to think that trust was misplaced. The waiting was agonizing, filled by chewing his nails and rubbing his lips. At last Paul, Mary, Mel, and Sue, plus a small team of camera people, were surrounding his bench. 

He gave his little speech about the peach and basil  [ biscuits ](https://wawona.com/2020/peach-and-basil-breakfast-biscuits-crumpets/) , the sweet and the savory dichotomy. Ian’s green eyes watched silently from behind Mary and Paul, and Mickey could see the look of surprise when Mickey pulled out the word  _ ‘dichotomy’ _ . 

Fuck that guy, for thinking Mickey didn’t know words. Or couldn’t look them up, including how to pronounce them correctly, cause he didn’t want to look like the uneducated loser he really was on international television.

That mental train got derailed by his close focus on Paul’s chewing. He’d been silent far too long, even taking a second bite. 

_ Was this it? Was he going to get his first handshake, already, on week 2?  _ His heart pounded, and there was a faint rushing in his ears.

“Well done, Mickey. No complaints,” Paul finally said.

“Yes, just a lovely biscuit, the herbs came through beautifully,” Mary offered. “I’ll give you a handshake, if he won’t.” And she put out her thin, wrinkled hand for him.    
  


Mickey stared at the hand, hanging in midair, for just a moment. Mary didn’t give handshakes. That was a Paul thing.  _ But fuck, if she was offering… _

He shook her hand, the very small  [ smile ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/290fc70c5beb2c29da0ef77cd9b1e06f/tenor.gif?itemid=12515320) on his face expanding as he looked down, a little embarrassed by how happy the touch of those dry, papery fingers had made him. The cameras caught Ian with an awed little  [ smile ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/8c/c9/b9/8cc9b922cc920ad512e919d0b58f38e9.png) too.


	28. Week 2: Technical Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just thinking the guy’s name made him glance up, expecting to see that stupid face looking down over his bench, but no. 

That afternoon, the bakers all stood at attention, waiting to hear what the technical challenge would be. Before Paul and Mary came out, one of the PA’s walked to the front of the tent. 

“Sorry, folks if I can just get your attention for a moment.” Mickey glanced around, trying to see if anyone had a clue, but they all looked as confused as he was.

“We’ll get starting in a moment, but for today’s Technical Challenge, it may be tempting to compare what you’re making to a popular brand name item. Now as the brand is not a sponsor, it’s vital that you  _ not  _ make off-the-cuff remarks or mention that brand name product at any point, because we’ll have to edit you out, and it’s a bit of a headache all around.” The man looked at the rows of bakers, expecting them to - what? Agree? Sign a contract? Mickey went with a sharp nod, and the other bakers did likewise, which apparently satisfied the powers that be, because the PA moved and Paul, Mary, Mel, and Sue appeared at last.

\---

Ok, so Mickey knew what a fig newton was. And he kinda guessed a  [ fig roll ](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/paul-hollywood-fig-rolls/) was the fancy version of the shitty cookie. Making the thing was a whole other process. 

_ Step 1: Make the dough. _

That was it. No other details: Mickey even checked the back of the recipe sheet, in case there’d been a mixup. Doubtfully, he mixed together the dry ingredients before slowly adding in the wet. The resulting mixture was sticky and more reminiscent of cake dough than a cookie. A quick peek at Ian showed his dough was basically identical, so maybe they were both wrong.

_ Step 2: Make the filling with figs, ginger, and cinnamon.  _

No amounts of any of the filling ingredients were given. Of course not. After rehydrating the figs, Mickey pureed them, and slowly added the spices, tasting frequently. Across the tent, he saw Kassidy dump huge chunks of ginger in, along with seven or eight tablespoons of cinnamon. Mickey’s mouth was dry as he thought back to the time he and Iggy had tried the cinnamon challenge, pouring huge spoonfuls into their mouths and trying not to choke. Iggy had coughed and hacked for hours, eyes red and watering; Mickey had just puked and gotten it out of his system. Suffice to say, Kassidy was wildly overestimating how much spice to add, which made Mickey stop adding to his filling. It might be a bit on the weak side, but he had a distinct memory of the taste of cinnamon-flavored vomit. 

_ Step 3: Roll out the chilled dough into two identical strips. Spread the filling evenly and wrap. Cut the strips into twelve identical pieces. Press the tops with a fork to make the characteristic lines. _

Mickey’s rolls didn’t look as neat as he’d hoped. His decision to chill his filling may have been a bad one, because he could barely spread the semi-frozen mixture, resorting to chopping it into pieces to lay on his dough before rolling it up. The dough wasn’t perfectly fitted, but at least he was happy he’d broken out a pencil and done some quick drawings before beginning to cut the pieces apart. Candace seemed intent on making all her pieces as dissimilar as possible, and Tony hadn’t done any measuring: his eye was way off. Trevor was busily tucking little bits of shit in on his rolls, and staring daggers at the side of Linda’s face from across the tent. Seems like he had identified Linda as his competition. 

Mickey peered around Ian, trying to see Linda’s bench in front of the redhead, and noticed she’d only cut her rolls into thirds, for a total of six, rather than the specified twelve. 

_ Should he- _

Before Mickey could even begin to wrestle with his conscience, Trevor had stepped across the aisle, whispering in Linda’s ear. Mickey couldn’t see her face from where he stood two workbenches back, but he saw the sudden tension in her back as Trevor touched her arm, and then the stiffening of her whole posture as she quickly looked down. Trevor was already on his way back to his table, but Linda was shooting him a grateful smile for catching her mistake. 

Would Mickey have done the same? He wasn’t sure he would have, not for a stranger. Maybe for Gallagher, just cause he wanted to beat him fair and square, not because of some dumb mistake.

_ Step 4: Bake. _

Another bit of fuckin’ helpful directions. It didn’t say how long or how hot, or even what color the dough should be (light brown? Golden? Dark brown?) so Mickey would just have to wing it. He hunkered down, in his usual oven squat to watch the cookies bake. After about 10 minutes, they’d started to look done, but he wasn’t sure.

He thought back, trying to remember if he’d ever eaten fig newtons. Certainly not as an adult. That was the kind of shit parents put in a kid’s lunch box. Good parents, not shitty ones like Terry, or dead ones like his mother. The taste of the filling hadn’t brought back anything, and neither did the smell as he opened the oven door. Maybe he’d stolen one once, from another kid, when he was hungry at school. Or boosted a package from the Kash’n’Grab. A vision swam up in his mind, and he nearly fell over, losing his balance as he crouched. 

A freckly, red-haired teen boy in an ugly green apron. Mickey remembered lifting shit right under his nose, not even caring if the kid saw. Terry’d been in the joint, again, and there wasn’t anything to eat at the house. Instead of crying about it, Mickey had done what was necessary and stolen.  _ From fucking Ian Gallagher.  _ Just thinking the guy’s name made him glance up, expecting to see that stupid face looking down over his bench, but no. 

_ Did the guy remember him? He couldn’t- he would have said something, righ _ t?

The door of Mickey’s oven was still open and the emanating heat was enough to pull him back to the present. His fig rolls were a rich golden brown, so he pulled them out, then did the stupid fanning thing everyone on the show always did with a tray, basically just killing time and keeping busy until the challenge was over.

Some bakers had pulled their rolls out earlier, producing anemically pale rolls, and a few still had their rolls in their ovens, even as Mel and Sue did a whole song and dance about having “Just one tiny minute left, bakers!”

At the last minute Kassidy yanked her tray out, slamming it roughly on her worktop. One wayward fig roll wobbled, then nearly fell to the floor, before being caught in a tanner hand. Jody had crossed the aisle, reaching out his hand to save Kassidy’s bake at the last possible moment. Mickey bit his lip. He probably wouldn’t have done  _ that  _ either. 


	29. Week 2: Technical Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having grown up with Terry who expressed his disappointment and disapproval with his fists, these facial expressions should have been meaningless to Mickey, and yet…. It was stupid. Paul and Mary weren’t his surrogate parents, this wasn’t a big happy family; it was a competitive TV show and he wanted to win.

The judging on the fig rolls was rough. Mary and Paul’s faces when they stepped out conveyed the full weight of their disappointment in the bakers. 

Even Mickey felt a little squirm in his heart, looking at his cookies and wishing he’d done something different, cooked them longer, spiced them better, been neater, anything to remove those looks of parental disapproval. Having grown up with Terry who expressed his disappointment and disapproval with his fists, these facial expressions should have been meaningless to Mickey, and yet…. It was stupid. Paul and Mary weren’t his surrogate parents, this wasn’t a big happy family; it was a competitive TV show and he wanted to win. The only reason he should feel bad today was because he wasn’t gonna come in first in the technical. 

Mel and Sue made their usual speech, and Paul and Mary began tasting the fig rolls, while the bakers looked on in uneasy silence.

Candace’s fig rolls were anemic, too pale and underbaked. She’d left off the design on top, and her spices were too light. Edible, but only barely, Paul declared.

Ian was next. His rolls were pretty decent, though he seemed to have forgotten the ginger entirely, which Mickey planned to tease him about for the rest of their time together. The bake was otherwise fine.

Jody’s rolls had correct taste and texture, but he seemed to have lost one, somewhere along the way, producing 11. The rolls he did show were also somewhat uneven in size and shape. Mary made a dig about substance versus style, and how a good baker should master both elements at the same time.

Kassidy’s fig rolls weren’t successful. She’d left them in the oven too long, resulting in nearly burnt rolls with a filling that had become crumbly to the point of desiccation. The shapes were all irregular, and Mickey could hear the not-so-quiet sniffles from down the row of stools as Paul grimaced and glared his way through the tasting.

Linda, by contrast, had another strong showing. Her balance of spices was right, but she’d ever-so-slightly underbaked her rolls, leaving them a bit too pale. Mary seemed to be enjoying them regardless, popping a whole cookie into her mouth with barely restrained glee.

Next was Mickey’s tray of fig rolls. He knew his spice level was off, a little lacking, and the judges immediately picked up on that. They also thought he could have taken them out of the oven a bit sooner. However, their shapes were even, and he felt confident he wasn’t at the bottom. Hopefully he’d collect a decent chunk of change again this time.

Sheila’s fig rolls were nearly picture perfect. They looked like a magazine advertisement come to life, as far as Mickey could see. Neither Paul nor Mary had anything negative to note, and Paul may have even cracked a smile. 

If Sheila’s rolls had been nearly perfect, Svetlana’s were literally perfect in every way. Her forked lines on top were identical in length and depth, each fig roll probably weighed exactly the same, and the bake was just right, leaving the cookie part cakey but not overly dry. Mickey glanced down at Sheila, who looked like she’d been sucking a lemon, all sour-faced and unhappy to be knocked out of first place.

Tony’s fig rolls broke the successful streak. They weren’t terrible, but he’d gone for too much of the flavors and not sufficiently pureed his filling, leaving uneven chunks. The chunks of fruit had made it nearly impossible to wrap the dough around neatly, and in the final product, it showed, with his rolls being lumpy and unappetizing.

Smiling Trevor, who Mickey still unreasonably disliked, had done a satisfactory job, though his rolls weren’t quite identical, the flavors and bake time seemed right.

Vee was the only baker left to be judged, and as he sat beside her in the lineup, he saw her small hands clenched into fists on his thighs, and the tension in her shoulders. Her fig rolls weren’t great. She’d also kept them in too long, and had issues making them identical. They were edible, but Paul was making noises about an uneven balance of flavors in the filling, and Mickey sensed, more than saw, a single tear roll down her cheek.

The rankings came as no surprise after watching the judgement. Svetlana was first, winning a cool grand, Sheila was second, and Trevor third, each splitting a grand. 

The middle group, all earning $300 were Linda, Ian, Mickey, and Jody. Mickey didn’t like that Ian had beaten him again, but they’d both gotten the same amount of cash, so he figured he could let that go.

The final grouping, the least successful bakers, each taking home $200, were Tony, Candace, Vee, and in last place to no one’s surprise, Kassidy.

The night before coming on the show, Mickey had stayed up late, drinking, smoking pot, and binging every previous season of the show. He knew that the curse of the star baker was a real thing: People who did exceptionally well one week often went home the next. Maybe their nerves got the best of them, maybe it was just a fluke, but Mickey decided he’d rather not be star baker at all, than to go through that. It was possible to win the show without it, though somewhat unlikely. Still, not being star baker had another perk- he would never have to wear the shitty badge that looked like a kindergartener's idea of a sheriff’s star. Really, a win-win.

After the camera’s had gotten the reaction shots, the bakers milled around for a few minutes, eating leftover fig rolls. Sheila was feeding her second place cookies to Jody, claiming to be showing him where he’d gone wrong. It looked like weird, awkward, hetero-flirting to Mickey, but he just sniffed and tried to ignore the two. 


	30. Week 2: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kissing is your superpower?”  
> “Said what I said.”

Mickey was on the roof after sunset, drinking his second beer of the night, casually watching a semi-hidden couple make-out behind some tall ferns in the opposite corner of the rooftop, mind basically empty.

‘Enjoying the show?’ Ian inquired casually, popping out of nowhere yet again. 

‘I ain’t watching,’ Mickey said, a bit defensive. What did the guy mean, asking if he was enjoying watching two strangers make out?

‘Oh,’ Ian grinned at his response. ‘Course not. Want another?’ He held out a long necked brown bottle. 

Looking down in surprise, Mickey was alarmed to discover he had already finished his and was holding an empty bottle in his hand. It hadn't been his first drink of the night, and the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. He put the empty to one side and paused uncertainly, glancing around the rooftop. Instead of responding graciously to the offer, he just held out his empty hand, expecting to be handed the drink. Instead, Ian took Mickey’s hand in his own, almost a handshake. Mickey stared dumbly at where their hands hung in midair, still connected.

Ian had a strong, warm grip- felt better than Mickey had expected, and it lasted longer, too.

In fact, it didn’t end at all. Keeping a tight grip of his hand, Ian turned around and led him across the roof, guiding him gently past the workout equipment and ushering him over the ledge onto the fire escape. He pressed Mickey in front and stood behind him. They were pretty high up and Mickey kept his eyes up, reminding himself not to look down. With so little in front of him, Mickey found himself leaning unintentionally backwards as firm hands landed on his hips and Ian rested his chin on his shoulder. His warmth radiated through his jacket and into Mickey’s back. It felt good- too good, so Mickey pulled away and sat, legs akimbo, on a metal step. 

Ian downed his drink in one, and watched Mickey. The alcohol wasn’t doing anything to tear down the giant brick wall around Mickey’s feelings on idle conversation, or his dick. Not that he wanted that to happen; messing with this guy, no matter how hot, would only fuck up his plans here, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. 

The redhead swayed slightly, as he leaned on the thin, iron railing, gazing out. Mickey realized that, while he was a little wasted, Ian was truly wasted. How much had he had, before they started talking?

“What’d you do, before you got here, Mick?”

The question took him by surprise, and so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “ Beat ass, suck dick, sell drugs. That was my whole life before I got here, ok? This whole baking thing was just- I did it cause we had to eat, and then I did it for me, but I hadta hide it.”

“Your family know?”

“About the baking?” He knew that wasn’t what Gallagher meant, but he wasn’t gonna make this easy, either.

“No, Mickeyyyy.” He drew out the last sound, almost into a whine, that should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t. “Does your family know you’re - you know, gay?”

Mickey relented, deciding he could blame his chattiness on the beers. “Sorta. My fucking dad hates it, hates me, but my sister doesn’t mind. My brothers and I don’t talk about it, unless they’re razzin me. Bein’ gay ain’t cool, but as long as everyone thinks I still do the fuckin’,”

Ian’s green eyes were wide and goggling at him, and Mickey thought about amending his speech, before deciding fuck it. “Bein a fag though? A baker who lifts his shirt, a soft bitch? I’d be dead. You and I both know it.”

“Southside rules,” Ian said softly, and Mickey echoed him. 

“Southside rules. So I’m guessing you’re Mister Pride flag, like fucking whatistits, Trevor.”

“Not quite like that, but sort of. I’ve been out since high school, my father caught me with my first boyfriend in the walk-in cooler at work.”

“He give you a beat down?” Mickey asked the question casually, as if it didn’t bring up flashbacks to the worst hours and days of his own life.

“Frank? Nah, he just gave me a stupid speech about how ‘Men have always had men’ and stole some shit. Kash was so pissed off when he saw how much Frank took.”

“Wait, Towel-head was your first boyfriend? Wasn’t he, like 40? And married?”

“He was only, like, 32 when we got together…” Ian muttered lamely, still staring off into the distant buildings.

“And you were what, fifteen when you worked there?” Mickey heard the mistake as soon as he said, hoping vainly that Gallagher would miss it, but no such luck.

Ian faced him, eyes widening. “Yeah, I was -  _ wait _ . How’d you know I was fifteen when I worked for Kash?”

Mickey stared down, wondering if he wished hard enough, would the entire fire escape fall down and kill him, saving him from this conversation.

“Lucky guess.”  _ Time to try misdirection. _ “You got a boyfriend now?”

“Not exactly.” 

_ Shot landed, time to lean in.  _

“The fuck’s that mean, not exactly? You got a guy who  _ thinks  _ he’s your boyfriend, then?”

Turning, Ian rested his ass on that shaky railing, shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe he does. But that’s not my problem, what he thinks, now is it?”

Internally, Mickey grinned. He could get behind an idea like that. But he kept pushing his conversational advantage, enjoying having Gallagher on the back foot. “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. I got a guy who knows he ain’t my fuckin boyfriend, not any more.”

A slow grin began to spread over the freckled face in the dim light, “So there’s an opening?”

“Fuck you, is what there is.” He stood, coming to lean and look out at the lights of the city that twinkled in the distance, hip to hip next to Gallagher. Somehow, over the course of the flirting and conversation, his apprehensions about getting closer to the guy had vanished, leaving him with only a low heat in his gut. Didn’t mean it had to mean anything. The adrenaline of the height was getting to him, probably, that was all. 

They were so close that Mickey could inhale the clean smell of Ian’s jacket, and more distractingly, feel the rough grind of his jeans. Through the fabric of his own cotton sweats, the sensation was intense and Mickey found himself leaning into the man’s shoulder, unmoving.

Ian shifted, and Mickey found himself tucked in front of him again, large hands grasping his waist. It was too much, and not enough, feeling a very large erection rut gently, almost politely, against his ass a few times.

Mickey’s breathing was growing heavier, he reached one arm back, around Ian’s neck, pressing back into him more firmly, thinking Gallagher’s cock wouldn’t be so polite when it was rearranging his guts. 

_ If. Not when. If. _

Ian’s mouth was inches from his ear, and hot, damp breath ghosted against it. Mickey turned his face slightly, finding himself staring at the man’s neck. He was coming to the alarming realisation that he wanted to sink his teeth into it.

He noted dizzily that Gallagher’s hands had begun to wander, pushing underneath his worn band tee in order to caress his back. They slipped lower and Mickey was hit by the fact that this was the closest he had been to another person since Byron. 

Ian pulled his head back to look at him, leaving their bodies still crushed together. His bright eyes had turned surprisingly dark and he licked his lips, turning his head invitingly to one side.

Mickey was vaguely aware that having his ass groped on a fire escape in the middle of the city wasn’t part of his plan… and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The exploring hands slid, one finding the cut of his hip and tracing it with blunt fingernails. His cock pulsed and he realised with a low moan that he was fully hard. Apparently Ian had realised too, because he spun Mickey, backing him into the brick edifice. Mickey took the chance to attack the neck that had been calling to his lips and teeth, and pulled an embarrassingly high-pitched moan from Gallagher, vibrating the flesh under Mickey’s mouth. 

Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that Ian had been here before, Mickey leaned back against the wall and let the man run his hands over his body. His hair was still wet from an earlier shower, and had dried a little fluffy. Ian seemed transfixed by it, running his fingers through it over and over, from Mickey’s forehead back to cup the nape of his neck. Their eyes met and Ian let out a low groan before shoving forwards against him in a manner which Mickey was more than ready for.

Gasping at the weight, the heat, the intensity of Ian’s attack, he grasped at Ian’s jacket as lips landed on his neck. Before he had time to enjoy the scraping of teeth against his skin, Ian’s hand was on his waistband, tugging at it roughly.

‘Gallagher,’ Mickey gasped, his own hands betraying him and reaching downwards to help. A thought bubbled up through the lust-filled haze of his mind.  He was too wasted to get down to a room, there were too many rules, and Mickey wasn’t about to get fucked out in the open where anyone could walk up. “We gotta-” he tried, distracted by the fingers that had cleverly gotten under his pants and into his boxers, curling around his hard dick. “We can’t. Gallagher! Dude, I ain’t gettin fucked on a fire escape.”

‘Ian,’ Ian corrected, with a smile. “I have a plan.” He dropped to his knees, the impact echoing off the nearby buildings,  looking up with those big, soft, green eyes, like Mickey would be doing him some kind of favor by letting the guy blow him. But it ain’t like he was gonna say no. Not now. Not when he had the excuses of beer, stress, and darkness.

That inhumanly hot hand tugged Mickey’s sweats down just enough that his cock popped out,  and Mickey swallowed dryly, watching Ian begin to rub his face on Mickey’s dick. The sight of it, of Ian relishing his dick, was unexpectedly hot, and his thoughts flicked back to the mincing way Byron had touched his cock. This was so much better already, and he wasn’t even in the guy’s mouth. 

Gripping his shoulders, Mickey whimpered low in his chest. Ian’s lips landed on his cock, at last eagerly swallowing him down to the root. The man began a steady rhythm, thrusting forward with his head, pushing Mickey deeper down his throat on every pass.

Soon, under Gallagher’s skillful ministrations, Mickey had unceremoniously dumped a load straight down his willing throat. Ian sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth modestly and waiting for Mickey to come back down to earth. 

Mickey sagged back against the brick wall. It made sense that he came so fast, it had been too long since he’d a good suckjob, and Gallagher knew his shit. Plus the beers, this was fine. He’d wake up tomorrow and do his job, bake whatever fancy French bullshit they wanted.

His eyes opened wide as a thought occurred to him. 

“Peanut butter.”

“Uh, that’s not what most guys say after I go down on them…”

Mickey looked down, remembering that Gallagher was still at his feet. “Not you, firecrotch. Tomorrow. I gotta make sure I got the creamy peanut butter and not the crunchy, or it’ll fuck up the recipe. I meant to check it a few days ago and I forgot until just now.”

“Uh, you’re welcome, I guess?” Ian stood slowly, stretching, leaning into Mickey as if he was gonna-

“I don’t fuckin’ kiss.”

“Excuse you? Why not?”

Mickey shrugged, noncommittal. 

_ Kissing was too- messy. Emotional. Everything. _

Gallagher leaned back, stepping out of his space, once again putting far too much weight on the flimsy metal railing in a way that was giving Mickey anxiety. “Ok, well you don’t know what you're missing out on, Mick. I have it on good authority that’s my superpower.”

He frowned at the bullshit. He’d heard some nonsense in his day, all sorts of excuses as to why he should do one sexual act or another, but this was a new one. “Kissing is your superpower?”

“Said what I said.” With that, Gallagher slid over the railing back onto the roof, and shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets, wandering off into the darkness, leaving Mickey alone.

He knew he should have offered to get the guy off, at least a handy-j, even, would have been polite or fair. But it wasn’t like he’d  _ asked  _ the guy to blow him, had tried to stop him, sort of. His protective walls were still firmly in place, he reassured himself. Eventually he too hopped the railing to the roof and headed downstairs to his room, noting absently that the other couple had disappeared as well. 

What did that mean, anyway? ‘ _ Kissing is my superpower _ .’ What a load of bullshit. 


	31. Week 2: Showstopper Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like David Attenborough: ‘if we just sit here very quietly, we’ll soon see the cookies come out.

Fucking maracons. Macaroons. Macaron. Whatever. Mickey knew what they were, had watched every youtube video he could find of Paul Hollywood making them, had made a few (or fifty) and still didn’t know if he was doing it right. He’d only ever tasted his own creations, and so while he thought he was on the right track- crunchy, crackly shell, soft inner cakey bits, interesting fillings that appealed to the nose and the tongue- he wasn’t actually certain. Maybe what he thought of as crackly was actually too gummy, maybe the inside was too moist, fuck. Fuck!

They’d all had the weeks and months before the show to prepare, and even the past few nights, the apartment building’s hallways had been redolent with floral scents, fruit aromas, and every variation of chocolate imaginable. Still didn’t mean Mickey felt confident in his bake. The flavors he’d picked were fine, a little classic and also a little daring. But who knew what these other bakers would be pulling out? Maybe exotic ingredients Mickey had never heard of, techniques he hadn’t learned. It was too easy to get pulled into a maelstrom of self-doubt, so he knuckled at his nose and straightened his spine, trying to listen more closely to the song-and-dance intro going on at the front of the tent.

Once the dog-and-pony show was complete and time had begun, Mickey focused. He had three different macarons to prepare, and he was confident about none of them. A quick glance around showed many of the other bakers appeared to share his trepidation. Only Linda and Trevor were serene, she, macerating some fruit and he, putting some shredded coconut on a sheet pan into his oven.

Mickey started to mix his dry ingredients together, wanting to get his macarons in the oven quickly, in case the first one were a flop. In another mixer, he beat egg whites. Once they’d reached stiff peaks, he split the mixture carefully in thirds and set about flavoring them. One third got just vanilla, one third got a few drops of red food coloring plus vanilla, and the final got a heaping spoonful of cocoa powder. Having combined the egg whites and flavors, he sifted the dry ingredients into each, folding until fully mixed. From experience he knew that tasting the batter at this point was useless: it bore no relationship to the quality of the outcome, so he just went ahead and ladeled each mixture into its own piping bag. Instead of relying on a drawn outline, he just eyeballed it as he piped the 24 small discs of each mixture onto his sheet trays. While they weren’t perfectly even, he also hadn’t added to his personal frustration level by getting too nit-picky, wanting to concentrate on developing layers of flavor. 

After dropping each sheet tray on the counter a few times to release any air bubbles, he set the trays aside to develop the critical “skin.” In the meantime, he began putting two pots of water on his stovetop to boil, then turned to slicing fruit. First, he diced the stringy stalks of fresh rhubarb, then sliced the strawberries neatly, making each berry fan out a spray of thin fruit discs. He took a small cleaver and cut the melon into halves, setting it aside for the moment. The two pots of water had reached a boil, so he added the rhubarb to one and made a cheat’s double-boiler with the other, breaking up chocolate with his hands and dropping it in. 

While all the pots cooked, he dashed over to put a small bowl of heavy cream in the microwave, feeling Paul’s disdain from across the tent. It was only for a few seconds, but it would make all the difference when it came to infusing the melon delicate flavor. 

Back at his bench, Mickey stopped, a little overwhelmed by everything he had going on. Some bakers had giant lists with steps, every minute planned out. Mickey’d tried that, and as soon as he went off course, either completing a task more quickly than expected, or getting stuck fixing one of his mistakes, the whole thing had been shot.  _ Fuck those lists. _

In front of him, Gallagher had a laminated list and was carefully checking off steps with a dry-erase marker.  _ Of course he was.  _ Perhaps feeling his eye-rolls, Gallagher turned, eye roving first over Mickey, noting with some approval the clear love-bite on his neck, and then across his bench. 

“Peanut butter?”

Mickey nodded, silently pointing to the jar with one elbow while he slowly whisked the chocolate on the double-boiler, adding the cream slowly.

“Are you making a Reese’s macaron? Cause that’s a good f- a good idea.” The omnipresent camera guy to Mickey’s right gave a quick thumbs up- the profanity hadn’t slipped out. 

“Tryin’.” There was no point in conversing with the kid, might give him the wrong idea. Never mind that Mickey had been up half the night, thinking about his macarons and also, who the HELL had a superpower as lame as kissing? 

Almost as if he could read Mickey’s mind, Ian smiled softly. “Can’t wait for a taste.”

Fuckin double entendres and stupid dad jokes and puns- they shouldn’t have made Mickey want to smile back, but they did. Without a word, he walked away, dropping his whisk in the hot melted chocolate by accident. 

_ Shit. Gonna have to fish that out when I get back. _

He was ostensibly checking his macarons development. They looked fine to him, but what the heck did he know about how macarons should look? A few other bakers had already put theirs into the oven, so he knew he wasn’t wildly off in his timing. Deciding to get it over with, he ferried the first two trays back to his station to begin baking.

\---

At their respective stations in the tent, the other bakers were having varying levels of success with their tasks.

Mickey kept getting whiffs of different fruits, all the berries, the sharp scent of lemons and other citrus fruits, some clearly artificial smells from little brown bottles, and someone seemed to be brewing strong coffee, because he could almost taste it in the back of his mouth. 

In front of him, Ian had a food processor out and was demolishing a red and white package of cookies, some brand that was unfamiliar to Mickey. Jody was babysitting a pot on the stovetop, stirring it as he leaned down and watched it closely. Tony had some purple edible flowers laid out and was strippng the buds with a small plastic tool. True to form, Candace had a whole liquor store sitting on her worktop. Sheila was frantically depitting a bowl of cherries, so rushed and with such shaking hands that Mickey feared for her fingertips. 

Trevor had just pulled a tray out of the oven, but it wasn’t a tray of macarons. It looked like toasted strips of something or other white that Mickey couldn’t quite see. Svetlana had a bowl of apples on her station, and as he watched, she plucked one up and with a quick flick of a knife, began to peel it in one long strip.  _ Damn impressive knifework, there. _

Vee was using a rolling pin to crush a plastic bag filled with nuts, and Kassidy had the most artificial flavoring brown bottles of anyone, laid out in a neat line on her station. Only Linda’s station was mostly clean; after every step in her process she was obsessively wiping down the wooden counter, moving dirty bowls to the sink and filling them with water, even. 

Sheila was crouched down, watching her macarons in the oven. “ I feel like David Attenborough: ‘if we just sit here very quietly, we’ll soon see the cookies come out.” The bakers around her gave nervous laughs, but Jody out and out guffawed at that. 

Mickey’s attention was pulled back to his own station, as he decided to put the melon-cream mixture into the blender to start developing one of his fillings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Turkey - Colonizer - Nonsense day in the US!


	32. Week 2: Showstopper Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel-noots.

Time ran out far too quickly, but Mickey was confident that his macarons were at least assembled, unlike Vee, who had assembled hers before they were cooled, leading to filling leaking out unattractively onto her display plate. 

_ Looked like Garfield had nutted orange spunk into two cookies and now the shit was dripping out.  _

Which was a shame, she seemed like a nice enough lady, but if this took her out, that was one less competitor for Mickey to deal with.

He sat back on his stool and waiting, keeping his ears open to spy on how the others had done.

\----

Vee’s bake was up first for judging. As Mary put it, her  [ candy corn ](https://expatwithkidsrecipes.com/2015/10/16/candy-corn-macaroons/) macarons were “unfortunate looking,” leaking orange filling. The artificial flavor of the candy corn also turned Paul’s face sour. The  [ salted caramel praline ](https://www.patisseriemakesperfect.co.uk/salted-caramel-praline-macarons/) filled macarons were more successful, though her nuts were just the wrong side of over toasted, according to Paul. Sue started to make a quip about toasted nuts, but he silenced her just a glance. The final cookie was the best of the bunch, a  [ malted milk chocolate ](https://www.southernfatty.com/malted-milk-chocolate-macarons/) macaron that both judges praised as “well-balanced.” No handshake, obviously, but it could have been worse. 

The time Svetlana had spent peeling the apples had paid off: Mary and Paul both raved over her  [ caramel apple ](https://aclassictwist.com/salted-caramel-spiced-apple-macarons/) macaron. She’d also presented a simple  [ apricot-vanilla ](https://www.imperialsugar.com/recipes/apricot-macarons) macaron and a  [ Nutella ](https://www.piesandtacos.com/nutella-macarons/) one with a powdered sugar stenciled ‘Y’ on top. There was a brief filming pause, after her judging, so the judges could brush some of the sticky caramel off their teeth outside the tent.

Ian turned to look directly at Mickey. “You know what Nutella is made of, right?” He made sure to emphasize the ‘noot’ part of the word, and Mickey just knew a terrible joke was coming. 

“Hazelnuts,” he ventured warily, pronouncing it hazel- _ nut _ .

Ian kept a straight face. “Of course not. That would be  _ nut _ -ella. Noot-ella is made from hazel-noots.” And he spun around, leaving Mickey to stifle a laugh, pressing his fist to his mouth.

_ Hazel-noots.  _ It was so simple and so dumb and yet devastatingly funny to him, somehow.

The judges returned, teeth clean and palates clear, to Candace’s bench. Mickey half-listened to her list of alcohol-drenched macarons:  [ coffee with Baileys ](https://livforcake.com/coffee-baileys-macarons/) ,  [ mimosa ](https://bakingamoment.com/mimosa-macarons/) , and  [ mojito ](https://www.waitrose.com/content/waitrose/en/home/recipes/recipe_directory/m/martha-collison-smojitomacarons.html) . Mary especially liked the last one, the mint, lime, and rum well-balanced. Despite being a one-trick pony, Candace could bake, and even Paul couldn’t find a major flaw in her macarons. 

Frantic Sheila had indeed cut herself depitting the cherries, and as she was judged, she seemed to be making a special effort to hold up her wounded finger on display the whole time, maybe hoping the judges would take it into account as they judged her work. She didn’t need to bother- Paul was enamoured with her  [ chocolate cherry ](https://www.tasteandtellblog.com/chocolate-cherry-french-macarons/) macaron, and praised her  [ blueberry-cream cheese ](https://www.imperialsugar.com/recipes/blueberry-cheesecake-macarons) macaron for its depth of flavor. Her downfall came in her  [ cake batter ](https://bromabakery.com/cake-batter-macarons/) macaron. Mary had nicely told Sheila that the only flavor she could find was vanilla, leaving Sheila’s face a crumple of sadness as Paul concurred. Mel tried to cheer her as the judges stepped away, saying they were quite pretty macarons, but Sheila stood, head down at her station. A hiss of support came from across the center aisle, as Jody stage-whispered “Good job, Sheils!” Her head didn’t come up, but Mickey could see a faint blush light her cheeks.

Linda was up next, and as expected, her macarons were simple and immaculate. She hadn’t gone for any artificial colors or flavors, no excessive decorations or glitter. The simplicity of her macarons made them stand out in her clear plexiglass display tray. While she didn’t get a handshake for her  [ blackberry ](https://www.piesandtacos.com/blackberry-macarons/) ,  [ pistachio ](https://houseofnasheats.com/pistachio-macarons-recipe/) , and  [ lemon ](https://www.sweetandsavorybyshinee.com/lemon-french-macarons/) macarons, she didn’t get any negative feedback from either judge. 

The round’s sole handshake went to Trevor, for his  [ strawberry lime ](http://www.bakingandmistaking.com/2011/09/lime-macarons-with-strawberry-curd.html) macarons. He’d also made slightly less successful  [ champagne and chambord ](https://bestfriendsforfrosting.com/champagne-and-raspberry-chambord-confetti-macarons/) and  [ samoa ](https://www.barbarabakes.com/samoa-macarons/) macarons, decorated with raspberry drupelets and toasted coconut flakes, respectively. He’d had to explain what a drupelet was to the judges, taking on a slightly pedantic tone as he slid into a lecture on why calling a raspberry a fruit was technically inaccurate. Paul had stood, stone-faced, while Mary looked on and smiled politely. Mel and Sue had been a parody of attentiveness, mock-hanging on every word and nodding appreciatively as he wound down. Seeming to realize he’d been lecturing the judges on camera, Trevor came back to himself. “Oh, uh- you can cut that, I guess.”

Paul gave him one slow blink, and then left with a brusque, “Cheers, mate.”

Ian was up next: Mickey could see his back rise and fall in measured breaths as the judges and cameras approached.

“Hullo, Ian. What’s all this, then?” Paul began.

“Hi, guys.” Mickey didn’t have to see Ian’s face to know he was offering that winning grin, all teeth and freckles, as usual. “I wanted to really explore different dimensions of flavor, so we have sweet, bitter, and richness today in my macarons.”

“Sounds delightful,” Mary piped. “Where shall we start?”

Paul didn’t wait for directions, just plucked a macaron off the tray and sliced it firmly in half, before proffering the plate in Mary’s direction.

It must have been the bitter coffee, because Mickey could see Mary’s face tighten a little as she chewed and swallowed. “My goodness, Ian, you weren’t kidding. Your  [ bitter coffee ](https://ericsweetcreation.wordpress.com/2016/08/19/black-coffee-macchiato1-macarons-recipe/) is very bitter!”

“Try the  [ mango white chocolate ](https://joanne-eatswellwithothers.com/2015/04/mango-white-chocolate-ganache-macarons.html) next,” he urged.

The judges did, and Mickey thought Mary’s body relaxed a little. So did Ian’s shoulders, where he’d been obviously holding tension the whole time. 

Paul noted “On their own, neither work well. But together, they balance. Interesting. What’s your third macaron?”

“Oh, it’s, uh,  [ cookie butter ](https://picky-palate.com/biscoff-macarons/) . Ground up butter and spice cookies.”

Paul nodded, and took a small bite. “These are fine. I wish you’d done something else to add a new dimension, maybe some heat.”

Ian’s shoulders sagged fully now, but his back was still straight. Mickey saw his grip on the countertop tightening, knuckles white.

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

The judges moved on to Kassidy’s bench. As usual, it looked like a Michael’s baking department had thrown up around her, leaving only the small tray of macarons untouched. 

“Hi! Hi, ok, so, I’m kind of a basic white girl,” she simpered for the camera, before continuing, “and I wanted to really make flavors I like without worry about all that fancy stuff. I like Starbucks, I like red velvet cake, and I like roses, so I made  [ pumpkin spice ](https://www.joyofbaking.com/frenchmacarons/PumpkinSpiceMacarons.html) ,  [ red velvet ](https://bromabakery.com/red-velvet-macarons-recipe/) , and  [ rosewater and vanilla ](https://fearlessfresh.com/rosewater-and-vanilla-macaron-recipe/) macarons. I hope you love them!” Her effusiveness was clearly a lot to handle, and Paul and Mary seemed to be inching back with every phrase. 

Kassidy had leaned heavily on buying her flavors: instead of toasting whole spices and grinding them down, she’d simply bought a pumpkin spice flavored powder. The red velvet macaron was red in color, but basically flavorless, and the rosewater liquid essence seemed to have been ladled in, rather than used delicately. The judges struggled to find anything positive to say, with Mary finally coming up with something about trying to find a middle ground between what Kassidy liked and what the competition was about, next time. Mickey sincerely doubted there would be a next time for Kassidy, after her dismal technical bake, this felt like the kiss of death.

Tony’s bake almost fell victim to the same issue- he’d used dried lavender in his  [ lavendar coconut ](https://bromabakery.com/lavender-coconut-macarons/) macaron, and been too heavy-handed, which Mickey thought was accurate for a cop. They all had fuckin’ heavy hands, in his experience. Regardless, his first macaron was too perfumey, but his other two were more successful and simple: a [ lmond ](https://www.bhg.com/recipe/double-almond-macarons/) , and a  [ neapolitan ](https://www.piesandtacos.com/neapolitan-macarons/) macaron that looked sharp in the display case.

There were only two bakers left: Mickey and Jody. Mickey’d fully expected to be last again, but the judges surprised him, coming to his station next.

“Hey,” he started lamely.

“Mickey, good afternoon. What are you serving today?”

He launched into a little explanation that he was trying to balance freshness with sweetness in his macarons, the usual bullshit the judges seemed to like, then waited for them to taste and respond.

First, they tried his  [ strawberry rhubarb ](https://www.piesandtacos.com/strawberry-rhubarb-macarons/) macaron. Paul raised one eyebrow, and Mickey felt his face mimicking the move, raising his own eyebrow. 

“These are good, Mickey.” Paul sounded a little surprised.

“Yeah, no kidding?”

“You said it exactly, a balance of sweet and freshness. You started with fresh rhubarb?”

“Yeah,” he heard himself saying  _ again _ .

Next, they tasted his honeydew  [ melon ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0f0RgIRJdNA) macaron. He’d wanted to swirl color into the macaron itself, but didn’t want to rely on artificial coloring, so he’d used macerated melon and vanilla. The color was light yellow and creamy, almost delicate, which was totally unlike him, but it matched the flavor. 

Both judges were silent a moment as they chewed, and Mickey waited, tapping one toe inside his boot anxiously. 

“Mickey.” Paul said his name, then stopped.

_ Don’t say it, don’t say it… _

“Yeah?”

_ Shit. _

“These are excellent. The texture is good but the flavor and presentation- I’ll be honest, I doubt your last macaron can measure up.”

Paul was right, the Reese’s inspired  [ chocolate peanut butter ](https://thebeachhousekitchen.com/2018/06/11/chocolate-peanut-butter-macarons/) macaron he served last was fine, but not nearly as memorable or interesting as the melon macaron. 

As the judges moved on to the last baker, Mickey went through what he’d learned. 

_ Interesting, memorable, and unique are better than what I like. I gotta stop thinking like a South Side thug and more like a fancy British baker. _

  
  


Jody’s macarons seemed to start out well, an  [ earl grey salted caramel ](http://www.foodjetaime.com/2010/11/earl-grey-salted-caramel-macarons.html) macaron that wowed the judges, but he’d put too much essence in his  [ peppermint ](https://houseofnasheats.com/peppermint-macarons/) macaron, and his  [ dark chocolate ](https://beyondthebutter.com/dark-chocolate-macarons/) macaron was one-note. Like Mickey, he had moments of brilliance, tempered with moments that fell flat. There wasn’t room in the competition for both men to win, that much was clear.


	33. Week 2: Star Baker and Elimination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, things are heating up backstage...

After three-quarters of an hour of discussion and filming while the bakers waited on tenterhooks outside the tent, they were called back to face the judges decision. Mickey’d used the time to smoke, resting on a picnic bench in the warm spring sun. The other baker’s had stood in clumps, commiserating over the comments they had received and sharing their small successes. Only Linda also sat apart from the clusters of bakers, reading a small paperback novel.

Back in the tent, they took their assigned stools in a row, as the PA’s walked down the line, fixing and fussing over them, running a quick comb through some wayward orange hair and dotting some concealer on a new cold-sore coming to light on Kassidy’s lip.

The makeup wasn’t helping. 

First up was Mel, here to drop the Star Baker award like a small, British angel. “This baker has proven that they can cook with all the herbs in the garden and give us a cup of tea in a macaron, congratulations, Jody!”

The tall man seemed as surprised as the rest of them, shaking his ponytail as a slow smile grew on his face. The other bakers clapped appreciatively, and no one louder than Sheila. Mickey side-eyed her as he clapped lazily. Good for fuckin’ Jody. Mickey’d beaten him by one in the technical, so that meant he was a better baker than Jody, obviously. 

Sue stood, hands clasped sadly in front of her. “I have the rotten job today of saying who’s going home. From the highest of highs, and star baker last week, to the lowest lows, Kassidy, my darling, you’re leaving us.”

Kassidy burst into violent tears. Trevor, sitting beside her, glanced around for help and found none, so he wrapped an arm gingerly around her shoulders. Taking the comfort, she sagged heavily into his body, until he was basically holding her up, alarm evident on his face.

_ That’s what you fuckin get for bein Mr. Nicey-Nice with everyone. Couldn’t catch me doin that shit. _

Kassidy’s biggest moment on TV in her life, possibly the only shot she’d ever get to simper to this many people at once, and she’d done it with snot pouring out of her nose, tears in her eyes, and a red, inflamed cold sore on the corner of her lip. Mickey almost pitied her. Almost.

“Kassidy,” Mary said gently, “We think you have a strong gift with baking, so don’t let this stop you. I’m sure your cooking will make many people happy in your lifetime.”

Kassidy let out a loud snuffle, snot being sucked up into her sinuses and throat.

Mickey nearly gagged at the thick, mucusy sound. 

While cameras panned out, the bakers gathered around, offering handshakes to Jody and tentative shoulder pats to Kassidy, who still had her face buried in Trevor’s chest. Sheila stood beside Jody, glowing like she’d won something, rather than this stranger. Mickey caught Ian glancing at him a few times, but they didn’t exchange any words. Mickey’s mind kept circling back to what Ian had said on the roof. 

_ You don’t know what you're missing out on, Mick. I have it on good authority that’s my superpower. _

Maybe Mickey  _ was  _ missing out on something. 


	34. Week 2: Downtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prime candidate to have his dick sucked by some ginger vampire with a lust for cum.

Instead of joining the other bakers on the rooftop, making him a prime candidate to have his dick sucked by some ginger vampire with a lust for cum, Mickey stayed in his apartment. He washed all the leftover dishes from his week’s dinners. He separated his lights and darks and piled them into bags to pass off to the PA in charge of laundry. He even changed the sheets on his bed, since he had been provided a spare set. It was 11pm on Friday night, and he’d managed to distract himself for about 3 hours.

He lay on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling, swearing he could practically hear the rooftop conversations taking place above his head.

_ Milkovich? I don’t think he has a chance.  _ That’d be Linda , in his head. 

_ No, no. Did you see his strawberry macaron? _ That was some good shit, Paul said. Ian, in his head, defending him.

_ Not as good as your opal cake last week. Bet you’ll do well next week too, you have the shoulders for kneading. _ In Mickey’s mind, the scenario he was imaging was Trevor, flirting with Ian, leaning close to maybe put a hand on those impressive shoulders-

Back in reality, Mickey gnashed his teeth. It wasn’t like they were a thing. He had no reason, no right to be jealous if someone else was hitting on Ian, especially in a made-up scene in his own mind. But it did make him green with envy, unreasonable as he knew it to be.

“Fine. Fine! I’ll go up there and just make sure- make sure no one’s gettin’ handsy,” Mickey muttered to himself.

He brought a six-pack of the IPA the PA’s had given him, fancy shit he didn’t like, but at least it would make him look sociable, like he had an excuse to come out on the roof instead of hiding in his studio like a hobbit.

As the elevator stopped on the roof, there was a sudden drop of about an inch before the doors opened that had Mickey grabbing for the wall, suddenly certain he was about to be plunged to his ignominious death. But the doors opened smoothly, and by the illumination of strings of little white holiday lights, Mickey could see the whole cast. Sheila and Jody were on a lounge chair. She nearly sitting his lap; he with a goofy look on his face that Mickey recognized absently as fuck-struck. He’d seen it back home a few times, in Iggy or one of his cousins. 

Vee, Tony, Candace, and Svetlana were doing shots of something by the little fake bar, and Linda was nowhere in sight. 

Mickey blinked, and stepped out of the elevator, confused. He’d only imagined Trevor flirting with Ian downstairs, but there they were, Ian leaning on the rooftop railing with a soda in one hand, and Trevor beside him. The fucked was laughing at something Ian had said, holding his belly like it was the laugh riot of the century. Without a conscious choice, Mickey found himself striding over to where the two men stood. Unceremoniously, he shoved the six-pack of IPA at Trevor, who accepted it with a puzzled look.

“Yo, Gallagher. Need you to show me something over there.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the fire escape.

“Mickey! We’re having a conversation here, do you mind?” Trevor had found some words, but Mickey ignored him, staring at Ian, imploring him with his eyes.

The side of Ian’s mouth quirked up. He knew. The asshole knew exactly what Mickey  _ needed to be shown _ .

He reached out one of the big freckled hands, clapping Trevor on the shoulder and squeezing lightly. “Sorry, Trev. Gotta take care of something. Catch you later, bro.”

_ Bro. Clapped him on the shoulder and called him ‘bro’.  _

That was, like, the most male-platonic goodbye Mickey could imagine, and it soothed a little of the flames of jealousy in his throat.

He followed Ian and they made their way to the fire escape, stepping over the railing onto the rickety iron that had become their spot. The last thing Mickey saw on the rooftop was Sheila, reaching out to feel Jody’s bicep and exclaim in admiration.

Ian stood with his back to the exposed brick, hands clasped behind him. Mickey was a step away, not fully leaning on the rickety iron but further out than he was comfortable with. His eyes drank in Ian like he hadn’t spent all week watching and memorizing his body.

When he finally brought his gaze up to Ian’s face, he found those green-blue eyes watching him, a soft expression in them.

“What?” It was his first reaction, the defensive.

“You tell me, Mick. You needed to show me something?”

“Uh-” Mickey hesitated, then pressed on. Fuck the consequences. “Ok, show me what I’m missing.”

“Mmm, you’ll need to be more specific. You’re missing all sorts of-”

Mickey cut the sarcasm off, stepping up and reaching on his tiptoes, pressing his mouth quickly to Ian’s. It took a moment, maybe he’d caught the redhead off guard with his sudden action, but Ian seemed to shake off the shock and suddenly he wasn’t kissing warm but unmoving lips, he was kissing  _ Ian  _ and it was glorious.

Now, Mickey had tried out kissing before in his life. There’s been slobber, and then the chick had puked on his boots. And expected him to take her home. To  _ his  _ place.

He’d never kissed a guy, so maybe that was why it felt like liquid gold was being poured down his throat, like the shine of it could be seen through every pore of his body, even with his eyes squeezed shut. 

Ian's skin was warm against his. Ian’s tongue was in his mouth, kissing him fiercely… desperately. Ian shifted, pressing closer, and one firm, muscular thigh slid between Mickey's legs, making him gasp into Ian's mouth. His cock hardened and his hips bucked up into the delicious heat and friction. Then a tendril of worry rose up from his guts, worming it's way into his chest and coiling around his heart. Mickey forced it down; ignoring it in favor of the heat of Ian's mouth, the silky feel of Ian's skin under his hands, the press of Ian's body rubbing up against his... rubbing...

"I want you to get on me," Mickey said, voice low and his breathing harsh as he reached the hand not threaded through the red hair down to fumble at Ian’s belt. It was a spur of the moment decision, less than a decision really, than a limbic urge. 

Ian grabbed Mickey's hand, stilling it.

"What, am I doin’ it wrong? That's - " Mickey gasped in a breath. “Tell me what you want, or if you want me to slow down or wait, or - "

"No, no. That's not - " Ian grimaced. “It’s Trevor.”

_ What the fuck? Gallagher and Trevor? Already? _

Mickey stepped back, cold where he’d been pressed to Ian’s body.

Reaching out, Ian gripped his chin between his fingers, forcing Mickey to look at him. “Not like that, you idiot.”

_ Oh. _

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say, so he just kept looking at Ian, whose eyes were searching his face for… something?

“You are a jealous bitch. Trevor and I- that’s never happening, ok?”

“But he’s why we can’t bang it out?”

“Yeah, sort of. He was saying some shit, before. About how he caught Sh- two other bakers, fucking. He asked me if he should tell the production team, cause it’s not allowed. Said that’d be an easy way to eliminate some competition.”

“Shit.” Mickey understood. He’d already given Trevor more than enough ammunition by pulling Ian away so unceremoniously. “Not us, though?”

“Not us. Some other couple.” Dimly, Mickey’s mind registered that Ian had classified them as a couple, but he pushed past that thought.

“Think he’ll do it?”

“I do. He’s - there’s something cruel in him. Like people treated him badly for a long time, and he wants to take it out on the world.”

“I  _ knew  _ that nicey-nice shit was fake.” Slowly, Mickey moved back in, stepping between Ian’s splayed legs, slotting their hips back together.

Ian peered down at him. “You believe me?”

“About Trevor?”

The rolled eyes told him that playing dumb wasn’t working.

“Nope. Gonna need some more demonstration of that super power ‘fore I believe it.” 


	35. Week 3: The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loaves of bread labeled, “Fortified with ten bazillion vitamins and minerals,”

Bread week. Mickey had come into the competition knowing this would be his high point. If he could make it to bread week, he’d be a real contender. Now it was the night before the signature bake and he was doubting himself. He stood on the rooftop in a light drizzle, clouds obscuring the stars, smoking and thinking.

Maybe he just thought he was good at bread because he’d never had any good shit to compare it to? Maybe his proves and rises would be off, cause they were in the tent, and all his loaves would split. 

Fuck all the maybes. Bread was something he was legitimately good at, last minute doubt aside. 

Nothing had happened yet on the Trevor-snitch front, but Mickey had the uncomfortably familiar knowledge that he was being watched. Not, like, at the moment, but in general. Trevor had been watching him, watching Ian. Watching them together. They had to be more circumspect, but if they were careful, cautious, maybe. Maybe they could push on with whatever was between them.

Mickey wanted to be able to just dismiss Gallagher, with his sunlight hair and big, hot hands. If they were back home- easy. A cutting glance, some well- placed insults, and it’d be over. But this place, the whole competition, was like a dreamspace. The home rules didn’t apply here, and Mickey could be something, someone else. 

The drizzle had stopped, but the stars were still enveloped by the darkness as he looked up, the moon a faint sliver peeking through grey clouds. He tossed the cigarette butt out over the edge of the building. Thought back to how he’d first started trying to make bread, how different his life had been.

He was just a skinny teenager, dirty all the time and hungry for more than pizza rolls and pringles. Their house had nothing fresh, nothing perishable, nothing that he couldn’t have lifted from the Kash N Grab under Gallagher’s freckled little nose in a hot minute. Mickey had thought maybe that was why he was so short, why puberty seemed to have come and gone, leaving him with body hair, deeper voice, a functional dick, but no increase in height. Lack of nutrients, or some shit.

In the stores he cased, he saw all the loaves of bread labeled, “Fortified with ten bazillion vitamins and minerals,” and an idea took root. Bread was too big to steal easily, too easy to squish and ruin. Plus, the white, sweet bread sold at the stores didn’t appeal to him. It was only after he passed by an italian bakery and saw the tough, round loaves that his idea of what he wanted to make solidified. Manly bread, shit you could tear with your teeth. Eat it with deli meat, or spray cheese, or just by itself… yeah.

At the school library, he skulked around until he found a cookbook and made sure no one was watching as he scoped out the recipe. Water, sugar, salt. Flout, and yeast were the only things he didn’t already have on hand and didn’t anticipate being able to easily acquire. But fate was kind, for once in his short life, and Mandy came home a few days later with her flour-sack practice baby from health class. Mickey didn’t even make a pretence of trying to discuss it with her, just swapped the insides out with a bag of drywall paste at the first opportunity, keeping the dusty flour in an open bucket in his room. 

The yeast was harder to come by, and he had to do a little online research. When Mickey realized it was sold in tiny packets, like Kool Aid powder, at the grocery store, he knew he could boost that shit, easy-like. 

He waited until Terry was away for a weekend, and began to experiment. Mandy was home, locked in her room listening to thumping music and chatting loudly on the phone to some friend or another. The first loaf was - it was bad. Terrible. Not inedible, cause no way was he wasting that shit, but not good. He’d let it prove on the kitchen counter, and it was fuckin’ cold in there, so the yeast had been retarded. Mickey’d been tickled when he learned he could finally say the R-word to his heart’s content, so long as he was talkin’ about yeast development.

Either way, it had barely risen, and then split badly when it baked. Burned on the bottom, no crumb texture. All the details he learned later through practice, the first loaf failed miserably.

But he kept trying. Eating those first bites, no matter how irregular and incorrect had been like an awakening. How had those few little ingredients turned into something that tasted like- like he imagined a warm kitchen might taste. It tasted like comfort, and safety. Like a full stomach, and heat that worked. Clothes that were clean and a mattress that wasn’t stained by every possible bodily fluid. 

The next loaf wasn’t much better: he’d just barely figured out how not to burn that shit. Then he was out of yeast and had to go steal more, which took a few days and by then Terry was home, so all baking came to a halt. But Mickey persisted. Whenever he could, when the house was empty, he’d sneak into the kitchen, trying shit out. Mandy caught him, finally. 

Her eyes had been curious and bright, when he finally showed her what he was doing. Then she demanded a taste. Grudgingly, he had ripped a piece off a cooling boule for her, then waited while she chewed, considering.

“Mickey, that’s really good.”

“Fuck would you know?” His automatic sibling snark was coming out, trying to cover his discomfort and his fear.

“I know bread! Tommy Wanamker took me to Chez Alex last week and they had the little basket of bread on the table before the food came out. You’re supposed to dip it in oil and herbs and shit.” She glanced around, looking for oil, butter, anything. 

Mickey shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets, wishing he could disappear before his stupid sister could say any more, but she’d already started digging into the drawers at the bottom of the fridge. Long ago they’d born labels for fruits and vegetables, but neither had been seen in the Milkovich household, and the letters had long-since worn away. Mandy came up triumphantly with a handful of small gold rectangles.

“Butter! I snagged it from the restaurant.”

Mickey didn’t respond, only turned to the cutting board and dragged a dull knife through the boule he’d given her a taste of. He cut two thick slices of the still warm loaf, and silently put his hand out for the butter packets. After spreading a thick layer on each slice, he handed her one, and held the other.

There was a weird moment then, in the dingy kitchen, each sibling holding a piece of buttered bread. A part of Mickey that always cried out for failure told him to drop the bread on the floor, see if it would really fall butter side down. He squashed the voice, and did a light cheers with his slice against Mandy’s, then took a huge bite.

_ Damn. That shit was good.  _

Mandy eyed him happily, nodding as she chewed with her mouth open, and for a moment, Mickey felt warmth that had nothing to do with the oven.

From then on, Mandy kept him in ingredients and recipes, always leaving them for him under his pillow. He flopped on his bed one too many times and popped bags of flour before he learned to check before he crashed.

Everytime Terry was out, they would descend on the kitchen, each Milkovich child silently appearing to watch Mickey measure, knead, prove, and ultimately partake in the sharing of freshly baked bread at the end. How their father never noticed the sudden uptick in oven use and the scent swirling across the dusty floors was a mystery Mickey didn’t like to think about too closely. 

He stared off at the glittering buildings nearby, wondering what Gallagher was up to. Without Ian wandering by, there was no way for Mickey to contact him, short of knocking on his door. Which he wasn’t about to do. Trevor had enough gossip and scandal to keep him occupied with Mickey adding to it by visiting Gallagher’s place late at night for no good reason.

Kissing, making out, and blowjobs weren’t good reasons. Even getting that generous dick up his ass finally probably wouldn’t qualify as a good reason either, no matter how much he wanted it. He sighed, and shook his head. He was acting like a little girl, and he had more important things on his plate right now.

Winning the competition would give him the seed money of his own to start a food truck. Nothing fancy, but a beater he could fix up and then drive around, basically a license to print money, that was how fast he expected to be raking it in if he won. 

He’d still be a name for a minute, if he didn’t win, though he wouldn’t be able to have his own place. Not like Terry’d be good with him working straight. The only way Mickey could continue to cook and bake seriously would be to win. The idea of doing this shit for a living was something he’d never considered as a viable option until now, always thinking it was all a huge mistake that he’d been accepted to compete.

And if Gallagher and his thick dick distracted him? He’d like to think he could cut the guy out of his mind in a minute, but that was a lie. If it came to choosing between Ian and a food truck, one he could drive around and sell out of, maybe drive to see the ocean for the first time? 

_ Stop thinkin’ about shit that ain’t happened yet _ , he told himself firmly.  _ Just focus on tomorrow. You can worry about the rest later. _


	36. Week 3: Signature Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bit simple, don’t you think?”
> 
> “It kind of reflects my personality.”

Mickey had kept his first bake for bread week as straightforward as possible, a sourdough loaf from his own strain of yeast. It was a running joke at home that his bread had all sorts of weird bacteria and probably drugs in them, that’s what made ‘em taste so good.

He didn’t actually know what made his shit taste good. He just followed the same recipe he’d perfected over years and it always seemed to turn out just right- crispy crust, soft inside, rich flavor. Today should be exactly the same, except the water was different- the minerals and stuff. The oven was different, so his timings would be messy. And of course, he had to do it all under the eagle eye of the judges, while avoiding being distracted by a certain gingerbread man determined to tempt him.

After Mel and Sue did the usual song and dance intro, Mickey listened to the challenge carefully, making sure he knew exactly what he had to deliver, and when. Bread. One loaf. His signature. That could be an issue.  [ Sourdough ](https://www.abeautifulplate.com/artisan-sourdough-bread-recipe/) with nothing special added, no bells or whistles: it had to be perfect or he’d look incompetent. 

Once time had started. Mickey got to work, whisking together his flour and water, covering it with plastic wrap and setting it aside in the proving drawer for half an hour while he checked his yeast starter. The goo was its usual fragrant, bubbly self, and the whiff Mickey took told him everything would be ok.

Apparently the smell drifted a little, because Gallagher turned, an odd, squished up look on his face.

“Mickey, did you…?” His eyes flicked down below Mickey’s workbench.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Jesus, no. That’s the yeast for my bread. Smells like ass but tastes amazing, ok?” 

“I know next to nothing about bread- this is gonna be a disaster. You have to help me,” Ian hissed, trying not to let the camera guys notice their little discussion.

Mickey looked over at Gallagher’s workspace. It was already a mess of loose flour, a mixer beating a dough to glue, and dirty bowls. “How’d you even make it on the show if you can’t make bread? Isn’t that like one of the foundational skills?”

“Yeah, I mean my other skills made up for it, I guess? I put all these other flavors in my bread and I’m worried it’s gonna affect the rise or whatever.”

A timer went off on Mickey’s station, and he looked at the sticky note he’d written himself. Time to add the yeast to the flour mixture. “Ok, well, ask me if you get lost, but right now I gotta keep going.”

Ian nodded, and they each returned to their work. Mickey pulled his base from the proving drawer and pinched it together with the yeast. Once it seemed mixed, he put it back in the drawer, and ran a damp rag over his station. This was the cleanest his workspace had ever looked in the middle of the challenge, almost like he wasn’t really baking at all. After that he looked around. There really wasn’t anything for him to do for a while.

Ahead of him, Ian had dumped dried apricots into a pot of hot water, trying to rehydrate them quickly. Risky- they could leach all their flavor into the water, leaving gummy bites of flavorless fruit in his bread. There was also a cutting board with chopped walnuts waiting to be added to his dough.  [ Walnut and apricot ](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2010/04/bread-baking-walnut-apricot-bread-recipe.html) didn’t seem particularly bread-like to Mickey, but shit, he wasn’t a culinary genius like Paul or Mary. He’d have to taste it at the end of the signature and see if it was really good or not.

Jody had a giant container of spice in front of him and was putting all those muscles into grinding the spices into some kind of paste. Mickey could smell curry and garlic. There was also a tray of something green roasting in his over- looked like  [ chilis ](https://www.garlicandzest.com/green-chili-bread/) , but Mickey wasn’t certain.

On Sheila’s station were bowls of raisins, some kind of small, dark seeds, and an old fashioned jug of buttermilk. Some kinda  [ soda bread ](https://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/irish_soda_bread/) action going on over there.

Continuing the  [ sweet plus nutty bread ](https://www.thebakingchocolatess.com/maple-apple-pecan-bread-with-maple-glaze/) theme was Tony, who had a glass shaped like a maple leaf that Mickey was sure contained maple syrup. He was busy coring and peeling granny smith apples like a maniac, which was sure to lead to a - Ah, there it was. Tony grabbed his non-dominant hand and held it up like a prizefighter, calling out frantically, “Cut! I have a cut!”

The producers waved him over to the bored-looking EMT. Tony’s attention was back on his station, where his mixer was merrily beating his dough to clay. Over beaten dough was a sure-fire way to a chewy, dense bread. Someone should…

Mickey looked around. Everyone else was deeply engrossed in their preparations. He was the only one whose hand’s weren’t busy, but it would be so easy to go grab a cup of coffee and pretend he didn’t see Tony’s bread dreams being beaten to death in the stand mixer across the aisle.

_ Goddamnit, if he lost to Tony because of this shit…  _ Mickey stalked over and flipped the switch to turn off the mixer, deliberately refusing to look up and see the wet gratitude in the cop’s eyes.  _ Who was he turning into? Helping someone? A cop, of all people?  _

He made sure to stop and grab that mug of coffee on the way back, that way he could claim that it was just one step out of his path, not halfway across the tent. He selected a sedately colored mug and dumped a ton of sugar and cream into the inky brown coffee before stirring it and taking a grateful sip. His lips and tongue burned a little from the heat, but the caffeine was a welcome pulse in his veins, drowning out his anxiety.

When he returned to his own bench, he caught another of those odd looks from Gallagher, but fended off a conversation with a deep scowl, ducking to pull his mixture from the proving drawer. All he had to do was add the salt and let it rest again. Most of bread making, he’d discovered, was adding shit at the right time, and then waiting. So much waiting. 

True to form, Candace had an array of brown beer bottles on her station, microbrews, IPA’s, and stouts. Not even real beer in her  [ beer bread ](https://www.food.com/recipe/beer-bread-73440) . Typical Candace- all alcohol and no substance. 

Trevor already had his dough out on a lightly floured worked top and was kneading it lovingly. The way he was touching the dough, little mincing pats and rubs gave Mickey a cold chill. Like he was watching someone fondle a dead body. There weren’t any extra items on his worktop to indicate what kind of bread it was, and Mickey just hoped it wasn’t a sourdough- he really didn’t wanna go head-to-head with Trevor. Not yet, at least.

The smell of freshly cut herbs was emanating from Svetlana’s bench. Mickey could see rosemary, garlic, a fancy decanter of olive oil and guessed she was making  [ focaccia ](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/garlic-rosemary-herb-focaccia/) . Safe move: easy bread, lots of flavor, and quick. Mickey kind of wished he’d played it that safe. Svet was also at the kneading stage, and was really working up a sweat with long, rolling thrusts. If Trevor looked like he was a necrophiliac, Svet looked like she was giving a Swedish deep tissue massage, the way she was going at the dough.

There was a cluster of over-ripe bananas on Veronica’s station, and Mickey surmised she’d gone with  [ banana bread ](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/banana-bread) . Which was more of a cake than a bread, but he wasn’t the judge. There were also some type of nuts roasting in a saute pan and a glass bowl of chocolate chips. She was leaning into the sweet element, which was another risk. 

The final baker Mickey watched while waiting for his dough to prove was Linda. He was very curious as to what she was making: there were none of the extras or add-ins most of the bakers were using. Worst case scenario, he, Trevor, and Linda were going against each other directly, and Mickey had no illusions about where he’d end up in the ranking.

Another timer on his station went off, and he pulled his dough. Time to knead and shape his loaf. Mickey’s kneading technique wasn’t something he’d studied or seen anywhere, just what felt right. Contrary to expectations, his method wasn’t an all out fist fight with the dough, or a slapping, folding mess. Instead, he carefully stretched and bunched the dough, pulling and shaping it deliberately. He could feel Paul Hollywood’s eyes on him as he went through the familiar motions, but he just kept his head down and stayed in the moment, smelling the fragrant funk of the yeast and the fresh flour. The combination reminded him of home, and for a moment he was back in his own shitty kitchen, just trying to get some food made for them before his stomach ate itself out of desperation.

“Sourdough, Mickey?” Paul inquired, with that sharpness to his tone that warned Mickey to be wary.

“Yeah?” He’d meant it to be a declarative statement but it came out as a question.

“Bit simple, don’t you think?”

“It kind of reflects my personality.”

Paul quirked an eyebrow and folded his arms, looking for Mickey to explain.

“I’m a simple guy,” Mickey shrugged as he continued the kneading process. 

The sensation of being watched changed, and Mickey looked up. Paul Hollywood had moved on to peer critically at Sheila’s wet dough, and instead, Ian Gallagher was watching his movements with hooded eyes and slightly open lips.

“Close your mouth man, you’ll attract flies,” he quipped.

Ian did, and then took a deep breath, clearly trying to regain focus and steadiness.

“Watching you knead bread, Mick- that’s something else. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Nope. No one’s ever watched me, ‘cept my family. Maybe-” he cut himself off then, about the say something utterly stupid like ‘ _ Maybe it’s different cause you and I are messin’ around _ .’

“-Maybe you need to focus on your own bread,” Mickey recovered.

“But I suck at kneading,” Ian whined pathetically. “You have to help me, just tell me your secret, please?”

His pleading, with the big green eyes wide and his hands in supplication did  _ something  _ warm to Mickey, but he tried to push it down. “Man, just treat it like you want to be massaged. What you like, the bread will like, I promise.”

Mickey kept one eye on the tall man as he maladroitly manhandled the dough, secretly amused.  _ How could someone who was so smooth and confident touching bodies be so obviously inept at handling dough?  _ He finished he own kneading, and put the sourdough in for its final prove, sitting back on his bench to covertly watch the flex and pull of Gallagher’s muscles in his jeans as he worked over the bench. The time flew by, and soon enough Mel piped up, “Forty-five minutes left bakers, just three quarters of an hour!”

That would be cutting it close. At home, he usually kept his bread in the oven for fifty to fifty-five minutes. Not having that option, he increased the temperature slightly and threw the bread in, crossing his fingers. Technically he was done- all he had to do was pull it out before time was up. But in his observations in previous weeks, he’d seen how a minor accompaniment could take a mediocre bake to success. Of course, a terrible accompaniment could also take a decent bake down. 

He’d already decided on a garlic crema and a  [ honey-butter ](https://www.momontimeout.com/honey-butter-recipe/) . Each had only a few ingredients, the less he could fuck up, but each really brought a new depth to his breads. At least, they had in practice, according to his sister. 

The honey-butter was quick, and he quickly whipped together the few ingredients by hand, possibly showing off slightly. He put the finished product in a ramekin and set it aside. Really, it belonged in the refrigerator, but the chances that he’d forget it in there at the last minute were too high. 

The garlic dip recipe Mickey had landed on was  [ Lebanese ](https://thelemonbowl.com/lebanese-garlic-sauce/) , though he’d just adjusted the recipe he found online to his own tastes. It was also vegan, though you’d never catch him touting that. Mickey peeled the garlic, squeezed the lemons (one seed shooting out to strike the back of Gallagher’s head where he crouched, staring into his oven), and then added them to the food processor, pulsing it carefully. The rich aroma of garlic filled his nose, mingling with the smells of freshly baked bread from around the tent. It smelled like he imagined a real home might, one with a yard and driveway.

At the minute-mark, he pulled his boule out of the oven, dropping it onto his platter with the small dishes of honey-butter and garlic dip, along with a giant serrated knife. He knew the judges had their own, but somehow he liked the look of it with his bread. 

Ahead of him, Ian’s walnut and apricot bread looked like it had overproved, with stretching and rip marks on the sides. Shame, but Mickey wasn’t too worried. Across the aisle, he could finally see Trevor’s bread, challah that was clearly burnt.

They were ready to be judged.


	37. Week 3: Signature Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I fuck up bad enough, just set the tent on fire and I’ll be saved.

During the brief pause after time was called, Mickey had a minute to think. An enforced minute, really, because all the bakers had to sit on their stools and look at their little products contemplatively. Or some shit like that.

What Mickey was thinking was that Mel and Sue had given him a wide berth of late. Maybe ever since he’d responded badly to Sue’s lavish praises. On the one hand, he appreciated the space from their antics, but he knew that fan favorites often got a tiny bit more leeway in the judging, no matter how impartial the judging was supposed to be. And the main way to be a fan favorite? Interacting with Mel and Sue. He vowed to  _ try  _ to connect with them during the next segment.

Somehow.

The judging began. 

Tony was first. His maple and pecan sweet bread had never fully recovered from its extended time in the mixer. Despite Mickey’s best efforts, and against his own self-preservation instincts, Paul made an exaggerated face as he chewed. And chewed. And chewed. Mary was more delicate. “The flavors are quite nice, Tony. I feel like I’ve just had a warm cup of tea in a friend’s kitchen.”

Tony looked around, patently unsure if that was a good thing or not. Mel stepped in close to his elbow, and ducked her head as she stage-whispered, “That means she liked the taste.” Tony gave a relieved sigh, but Paul cleared his throat pointedly.

“I didn’t like it. Beyond the obvious texture issues, it hasn’t had enough time to prove, and the pecans aren’t crushed nearly small enough. I don’t want to bite into bread and get a whole pecan, Tony!”

“That’s not where he likes to find his nuts, noted,” it was Sue’s turn to interject, pretending to write herself a little note and tuck it into a pocket in her blazer as the group moved on.

Jody had done a nice job with his chilibread. He’d gone heavily in with the heat, but provided a yogurt raita dipping sauce that Mary partciualrly seemed to appreciate. Paul tore into the bread, pushing at it with a finger tip. 

“It’s baked, but only just. Do you see that? If i press on it, it wants to turn back to dough, Jody. Needed more time in the oven.” Jody nodded his head, taking in the positive and negative feedback with an eerie-attitude of serenity that Mickey didn’t trust. The only people who were that chill were high or- well, he’d been about to say mentally fucked up, but knowing Ian just for these few weeks had begun to change how he thought about mental illness. Delusional, he settled on instead. The only people Mickey knew who were that relaxed in stressful situations were fucked up on drugs or delusionally detached from reality. 

Mel and Sue had a whole schtick about the heat of the chilis and pouring yogurt saucily into each other’s mouths, commenting on the drips on their shirts with arched eyebrows. Mickey ignored that shit. A little too hetero for his taste.

Trevor’s challah looked impeccable, Mickey noted as the judges moved to his station. The braiding was neat and even, there were none of the unsightly characteristic rip marks of under-proved dough. Challah was a brave baking choice; there were no flavors to hide behind. Like sourdough.

Unfortunately, it only looked beautiful; the bread was tasteless and dry. In his mind, Mickey remembered that accompaniments could save an iffy bake like that, and wondered why Trevor hadn’t opted to offer a side or dip. Then he shook himself. This was a  _ competition.  _ He wanted Trevor to do badly. Even Mary struggled to come up with something nice to say, finally settling on complimenting the six-strand plait. 

“Trevor,” Paul intoned seriously, “I’m afraid you’re developing a pattern of style over substance. It has to look beautiful, of course, but more importantly it must taste perfect.” Behind his back, Sue mimed along with him, ‘Style over substance.’ She managed to make her mimicry of his accent exaggerated, and Trevor was clearly torn between trying to accept the feedback and giggle at the act.

The banana bread that Vee had made smelled good from where Mickey waited his turn to be judged. It was a little dark, but banana bread sometimes went that way, because of the spices and high sugar content in the dough. 

Mel was quite taken with the thick slices Vee handed out, slathered with thick yellow butter. It seemed to taste as good as it looked, because Paul was silent for a long time, almost as if he was considering handing out a handshake… At the last moment he spoke. “Almost. Almost perfect. Two minutes less in the oven and it would have been there.” Vee nodded, and Mary took another happy bite, smiling brightly.

Mickey had expected the judges to move either backwards down the row they were in, to Svetlana, or cross the aisle to Linda. Instead, on some invisible cue from the producers, they headed right to his bench. He stood quickly, nearly tipping over the stupid fuckin’ stool. A fast grab at the last moment kept it upright, and then he faced Paul and Mary.

“This is sourdough bread, with two spreads. Garlic and honey-butter. Don’t mix ‘em together, though.”

“Have you tried that, then, Mickey?” Sue asked carefully. “Mixing two things that don’t seem like they’d go together? I usually find new exciting flavor combinations that way.”

“Or food poisoning,” Mel put in.

“Or that, yes.”

“Uh, when I can try new .. stuff, I do. Don’t have a lot of variety at home, It’s a- whatchamacallit, a food desert. Only one grocery store, and it’s overpriced, not a lot of options.”

Mary looked on encouragingly, and Mickey felt them all silently urging him to continue. 

“That’s - that’s part of why I started baking. My siblings and I had it rough, poor family, not enough to go around. But making bread seemed like a good way to take cheap ingredients and stretch them out. So I did.” 

There was a pause, and Mickey kicked himself mentally, mad that he’d spilled his guts and it was just-

“Actually, that’s one reason archeologists believe humans developed bread. A good way to increase their caloric intake in an easily portable mechanism,” Paul said.

“No sh- really?” He’d caught himself in time, thank fuck. If he had cursed on camera, they’d have to reshoot the whole interview, and he doubted he’d have been able to psych himself up enough to be that vulnerable a second time. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“Shall we?” Mary indicated his boule and Mickey handed over the cutting knife to Paul. The slices he cut were thick and the camera was able to lovingly capture whirls of fresh steam rising from the middle. Ian gave him a covert thumbs up behind the judges, and Mickey kept his face stoney.

Both judges took the first bite without any accompaniments, as he’d expected. Mel surreptitiously dipped a finger into the honeybutter and tasted it, giving Mickey another stealthy thumbs up. What the fuck? Was that a  _ thing  _ now?

He focused on the judges who were chewing contemplatively. Paul went back for a second slide, spreading the garlic on first. Mickey could smell the garlic from where he stood, and started to wonder, had he gone in too heavily on it? Was it overwhelming, overpowering in a bad way?

Paul chewed, then repeated the process with a third slice, spreading this one with the honey butter. Mary did likewise, spreading each accompaniment on an un-nibbled bit of her first slice, however. 

There was a pregnant pause, and Paul slowly put out his hand. At first, Mickey thought it was to have an unprecedented fourth taste, but it was the coveted Hollywood Handshake. Mickey reached out to hold the man’s hand, unsure of what to do next. Paul squeezed, not softly, and pumped their joined hands up and down once, twice, and then released Mickey. He thought he could still feel that strong grip, might feel it in his sleep that night.

That was- what was better than his first blowjob (Angie Zhago when he was 13). Better than getting the email that he’d been accepted on the show. Better than anything he could think of, really.

Paul and Mary definitely said something to him, but honestly all Mickey heard was the sound Charlie Brown’s teacher made.  _ Wha wha wha wha _ . He thought he had a smile on his face, because it felt open and his teeth were weirdly dry and cold.

The judges moved on to Ian’s bench, and Mickey zoomed back into reality. Gallagher’s walnut and apricot bread looked okay, not amazing, but ok. He’d personally watched Gallagher chop the nuts up, so there was no risk of them being obnoxiously large, like Tony’s. More likely, Paul and Mary would struggle to find them with how finely Ian had done all his chopping. A sign of anxiety, Mickey knew.

“Well Ian, this does look tidy,” Mary opened. The loaf was reasonably neat, rounded with the distinctive slashes and warm mahogany brown coloring. Not burned, for sure. Mickey would have smelled it.

Paul soberly sliced himself and Mary each a piece and they tasted. It was Mickey’s turn to provide the off-camera support, so he dropped a wink when he caught Gallagher’s eye. He didn’t respond, but there was a faint deepening of color up his throat. Mickey wanted to  _ taste  _ it, see how the variations in temperature affected the distinctive Gallagher-ness of his skin.

“Ian, this is well baked,” Paul began. “What it’s missing is more definitive bites of the apricot and the walnut. I get citrus and I get nut, but if I didn’t know, I wouldn’t guess that apricot or walnut specifically were in it.”

Ian was nodding. 

“But the crust is lovely, I’d take this with a bit of tea any afternoon in the autumn.” Mary had to chime in with something kind; it was not just her job but who she really was, Mickey was realizing.

More nodding from Gallagher as the judges and cameras amoeba-ed away. It still wasn’t allowed for the bakers to converse, not until all the judging was complete, but Mickey wished he could reach out and touch Gallagher, somehow. Kick his ankle, pat his ass, something. 

Meanwhile, the judges had clustered around Linda’s bench, faces questioning the massive tan oval of dough she’d presented. Mickey wasn’t even sure how she’d managed to get it baked all the way through, it was at least 18 inches across and their cooktops were only just the same width.

After a deep breath, she began. “This is a lebanese bread called saj. It’s a recipe that’s very simple, and the magic of the saj is that it complements every other dish you serve it with. But I didn’t want to distract you with bells and whistles, so I’ve served it by itself.”

“Risky move,” Paul snarked, and Linda raised one, perfectly manicured eyebrow. 

“Maybe. I want you to see my aesthetic in bread. Simple and exact,” she replied.

Mary deflected the distinct tension, “This recipe is new to me, I’m excited to try it.”

Paul reached out, ripping into the messy oval and gave a piece to Mary. 

How good could it possibly be? Flour, salt, and water. Sounded like a cracker, more than bread, Mickey thought to himself.

“It is a bit plain,” Mary began.

“Yeah, I just-” Paul took another bite and considered. “I think serving it alone was a mistake, Linda. It needs something to elevate it, to bring the simplicity to the forefront as a choice, rather than as a default. It doesn’t look like you spent three hours on this, to be honest.”

Linda wrapped her arms across her torso, but her face didn’t move.

“Yes, what it needs is a lovely, herbaceous sauce or dip, something for it to work against. I agree with Paul, it doesn’t show enough effort. Next time, think about that, dear.” Mary patted Linda gingerly on the upper arm, trying to provide comfort, maybe. Linda’s arm was solid iron; only the fabric of her long sleeve moved under Mary’s gesture.

Mel picked up the remaining saj bread and folded it in half, tucking it under her arm. “I’ll just take this with me to have a read later on when I’m in the bath.”

It did look a lot like newspaper, now that she’d mentioned it, but no one really laughed. Linda’s discomfort was filling up the tent like a noxious gas. Hopefully the next baker had done a better job.

Sheila had. Both judges raved about her Irish soda bread, served with new butter. 

“Love the caraway seeds, reminds me of growing up, my mum would make it like this,” Paul reminisced as he tasted. 

Was this it- would Sheila get a handshake too, somehow diminishing the value of Mickey’s accomplishment? He knew, logically, that wasn’t how it worked, but still. He didn’t want to share the limelight with batty Sheila with her super obvious pandering to the judges.

But no. Mary liked it, Paul liked it, Sue and Mel kept sneaking nibbles, but no handshake. Thank fuck. 

“Another adult beverage-based bake, Candace? Don’t you worry about getting a bit one-note?” Paul’s blue eyes were boring into Candace’s oblivious, botox-smooth forehead.

“Who doesn’t like alcohol,” she trilled merrily. Or it was supposed to be merrily, it sounded shrill to Mickey’s ears.

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good but in a glass, not in every single baked good,” Mary tried.

“Hush!” Sue interjected. “Someone has to think of the children.”

Mel looked at her, puzzled. “The children?”

“If we  _ don’t  _ drink it all, the children might,” Sue intoned. Mel nodded understanding. 

Candace’s beer bread was served with a ramekin of melted raclette-style cheese, making it nearly a fondue. It smelled incredible, and the judges were prolific in their praise for the flavors, if not the details of the bake itself. The bread had come out a little over baked, a little tough, but the cheesy, bread, umami flavors more than balanced it out.

The last baker to be judged was the stealthy slav, Svetlana. Her herby focaccia was another hit, dipped in some fancy-ass olive oil. The pillow-y rise and characteristic ruffled shape gained praise from Paul specifically, but  _ no handshake.  _ Mickey’s sourdough was the only bread in the Signature to garner that honor.

“Well done bakers. The signature let you split hairs about what we meant by bread, and cover up some sins with flavors. The technical won’t be so forgiving,” Paul warned as the judges left. 

The bakers got a brief break as the tent was reset, and Mickey made a bee-line for Gallagher.

“Hey, Mickey! Congratulations!” Ian reached out, as if he was gonna hug Mickey, and he instinctively flinched back with a wild glance around. Only Trevor’s bright brown eyes were watching, but that was enough. 

“Chill with that. Not here, ok?” Mickey hissed, hating the way Ian’s face fell slightly as he realized the reality of their situation once again. 

“Right, right. Sorry. But your bread- looked so great!”

“Yeah, yours wasn’t bad,” he lied. Lying to save someone’s feelings? That was fuckin’ new.

“It’s ok to say it was bad.  I think that was as bad as it could possibly have gotten. I think I would have done probably better if I set the tent on fire to be honest.”

They shared a grin. 

“I’ll remember that. If I fuck up bad enough, just set the tent on fire and I’ll be saved.” 

The PA’s called them back into the tent then, and Mickey could feel eyes watching him as he walked. Not friendly eyes, either.


	38. Week 3: Technical Bake/Judging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re fucking grunting at your dough like… like it’s something else, ok? It’s distracting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the beautiful art courtesy of Steorie!

The bakers all stood behind their workbenches, passing around anxious glances. On the show, the slightly sped up music would be playing, but all Mickey could hear were scattered raindrops on the roof of the tent and a few sniffles from Gallagher, who seemed to have some allergies. Or a coke problem.

“Bakers,” Sue began, “for today’s technical, we’re all going to France.” 

Candace let out a high-pitched giggle, but stopped when she felt the death glares from the camera crew. No speaking or laughing during the intros, or they’d have to start all over again. Mickey had wondered about that, whether he could “accidentally” make noise during a technical intro and gain himself some extra time, but no… he’d decided the risk wasn’t worth it. Candace had either decided otherwise, had no short-term memory, or really was just two screws short. Or maybe all three.

Mel continued with a slightly tense smile. “Not literally, we don’t have the budget. Paul and Mary, they’re off to see a Cubs game. Paul, before you go, any words of wisdom for the bakers?”

There was a beat where Paul regarded the ten remaining bakers, then he spoke, face impassive. “Good luck.”

_ Well, that wasn’t very fucking’ helpful. _

Sue seemed to agree, “That really wasn’t a word of wisdom. That was just saying ‘I hope all goes well and you don’t poison me.’”

Paul shrugged those burly shoulders, and for a moment Mickey thought about Paul as a man, instead of a judge. The guy was definitely a top. Practically had to be, right?

“Au revoir! A bientot!” Mel called, bringing Mickey back to reality. “See you later, my darlings!”

“So, today’s challenge is four identical crusty baguettes.” Sue seemed excited, and on the inside, Mickey was too. Baguettes were just long loaves, thick crust, not far off from sourdough. He had this in the bag.

“If you don’t know what a baguette is, you’re on the wrong show, and you should just leave now.” Trevor’s grin was practically audible, and Mickey wanted badly to remind him that sucking up to the hosts didn’t earn extra points in the technical. He kept his mouth shut.

“You’re got two and a half hours, on your marks, get set, bake!”

Mickey pulled the red plaid cloth off of the provided ingredients, but ignored them in favor of studying the laminated recipe. Other bakers were holding up glass jars and perring at them in confusion.

Satisfied that he understood the recipe, Mickey began to measure his dry ingredients on the little digital scale provided. On his own shit, he did it by feel, but this was a technical challenge. Winning the cash could come down to a few grams or ounces either way. 

The camera crew began to make their way around to each baker’s station to capture sound bites, starting with Mickey, of course. “I have made baguettes before, actually, yeah.” He didn’t mention that they’d been inedible cause he was high as shit and misread the recipe.

At her station, Vee was pondering out loud as she reread the recipe. “I know what one looks like, I know what one tastes like. Question is, can I make one?”

Svetlana looked put out, but then she always looked pissed off. “I have tried before. They’re not as simple as they look.”

“How hard can it be?” Candace was confident, perhaps without reason. " It’s just a fancy bread stick!”

As relaxed as ever, Jody didn’t seem phased by any of the drama and unease in the rest of the tent. “The recipe is kinda basic. Add three fourths of the water to the flour, salt, and yeast. That’s it.”

The cameras kept shifting around the room, trying to capture moments from each baker at each stage of the recipe, so they could weave them all together later into some kind of narrative. The experience, however, was just distracting for Mickey. When the cameras were on him, he felt the pressure to say something good, and when they were on someone nearby, he felt equal pressure to shut up and be invisible. Not everyone seemed to be thrown; it was episode three, he really knew he should have adjusted better by now.

Linda was stretching her dough between her hands, as she told the camera, “It’s very sticky dough. It’s very hard to work with. But it’s getting there, you can see it.” Mickey couldn’t see shit. It looked like a big blob. But dough always did at this stage. Didn’t mean it wouldn’t turn out well. Unless a baker did something truly dumb, like forgot to put the right amount of water in.

“Potentially I haven’t put enough water in. See, other people’s look wetter than mine.” Ian gritted his teeth as he peered around at the other baker’s work. “It says 370 milliliters, but I think I put about 300 in. But is it the wrong thing to do to add it now? Probably.” 

Mickey sorely wished they’d worked out a system, like one cough for yes and two coughs for no. It wasn’t that he wanted Gallagher to win, obviously, but he also didn’t wanna see the guy humiliated on national television. He watched and relaxed slightly when Ian refrained from adding the excess water. Putting it in now would fuck the whole structure up even worse than it already was.

But the ingredients and measuring weren’t the only issues the bakers were dealing with.

Veronica was flipping her recipe over, looking for extra, hidden instructions. “It doesn’t say how long to knead it for or how long to prove it for. That’s the fun part, I guess.” The wrinkle between her eyes and downturn of her mouth showed exactly how fun she was finding it.

The water debacle had put Ian into a tailspin. Mickey could see the wheels turning overtime in his brain. The big hands were shaking with every move he made, and Mickey wanted to take him aside, calm him down. The urge to just hold Ian- that was new. Now wasn’t the time, no point wishing for impossible shit.

Mel and Ian were staring at his worktop, messy as it was. Gallagher was talking fast. “Oil a plastic container. This is definitely a plastic container. That part I’m gonna get right.”

After looking carefully at his instructions, Mel looked up at Ian. “It doesn’t give you any timings for anything, does it?”

“No. That’d be too easy, I guess.” Mel wandered away.

“Hey, Gallagher,” Mickey ventured, trying to stay quiet enough to slide past the camera’s notice.

Ian looked over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“You gotta chill out, man. Don’t get too worked up.”

Ian shrugged and tried to turn back, but Mickey wasn’t done. “You asked me to watch your back, and I am. This - this ain’t how you usually look and act.”

“I’m fine, Mickey. Go back to your baguettes.” The voice was tired and flat- it scared Mickey a little with how un-Gallagher like it was. But of course at that moment the camera crew descended on his station and he had to say shit for them like a trained monkey performing on cue.

He dropped a damp hand towel over his dough in a large ceramic bowl. “It’s what I do at home, so I’m doing it here. Those plastic containers, eh, I think it’s a scam. Like f- like proving drawers. Who has one of those at home? I have a counter, kinda, and an oven. The bread rests on the counter and bakes in the oven, simple.”

Svetlana chose that moment to comment across the aisle: “Just noticed, ‘Oil plastic container.’ I did not realize it’s what this is for. But I don’t want to take it out, because it’s already in there.” She gestured helplessly at her dough in the proving drawer. 

He knew he couldn’t say anything directly to help her, or Ian, or anyone, but he still felt like he had to say something. So he caught the camera operator’s eye and spoke his next phrase a little louder than necessary. “I don’t know how that,” he waved at the silly plastic container, “would be any different than that.” He patted the towel covering his bowl of dough. 

There was a little sniff of disdain from Svetlana, but she didn’t look in his direction, only continuing speaking for the nearest camera. “I’m taking it out. Silly mistake, never happened.” 

Vee was a little behind, she had only just read the directions on proving and seemed puzzled. She hummed, then “I’m not sure where to prove it.” Her cute pout more than made up for the boring commentary, it seemed, because a second camera swooped over to capture her from another angle. 

Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. In front of him, he could see Gallagher’s shoulders slumping further, as he read and re read the directions, trying to figure out how to solve the proving dilemma. He’d try just one more time to help, then fuck ‘em. He tapped his mouth with one finger thoughtfully before he began to monologue, “In the oven, on the proving setting? Or I could leave it on the bench at room temperature. At home I’d leave it out, so that’s what I’ll do.” He nodded his head, as if he’d just come to this amazing revelation, rather than done what he always did. 

Gallagher clearly overheard, because he put his plastic container of dough on the counter, covered with plastic wrap. Mickey couldn’t fix the plastic wrap, but at least the dough was in the right place. The proving drawer would just fuck with the temperature and humidity too much; the baguettes likes heat and dampness to grow a good crust.

Mr. Perfect-Trevor across the aisle was explaining to the camera crew his own choice. “I’m putting all my faith in the oven on the proving setting.” Of course he was. He’d be sorry when his shit came out chewy and soft.

Around the room, the rest of the bakers all had different takes on the issue. Vee declared, “Proving drawer, not in the oven, cause the oven’s too hot.”  _ Yes, Veronica, if it was on, it would be too hot. But it ain’t, so there’s no real difference between the oven and the stupid drawer. _

“I’m sticking to what I do at home. I never put my bread in proving drawers or ovens.” Of course Linda had a proving drawer at home, made perfect sense. 

Candace was puzzled, and had turned to the baker walking past with a fresh cup of coffee, “It just says prove, it doesn’t say how long.”

Jody took a sip of coffee, answered, “Probably about an hour,” and continued to walk away from Candace, dismissing her, to slow his pace past Sheila’s workstation.  _ In-teresting _ . 

The camera crew had come back to Ian, who was still in his puddle of self-doubt. “I’m not confident in this at all. It’s not rising, I haven’t put enough liquid in.” 

Then came the waiting game. Each baker had to judge exactly how long to leave the dough to prove. They all had their own ways of filling the empty time: pacing, drinking coffee, staring at the floor. Mickey chewed a hangnail and watched everyone.

Tony broke first, dumping his poofy dough onto his counter after only about half an hour. Ian pulled his shortly after: it had risen enormously, which was probably a bad sign, considering how much he’d diverged from the recipe. Then Vee and Trevor, while Jody walked serenely around the tent, clearly spying on everyone’s progress. Sheila and Svetlana pulled theirs out after 45 minutes, while Mickey and Jody waited a full sixty minutes.

Next was the process of dividing and shaping the dough. It wasn’t full kneading, but there was some massaging of the dough and muscle involved.

“Can you- can you stop that, please?” The redhead in front of Mickey was hissing at him.

“Stop what, Freckles?” Mickey kept going at his dough, enjoying the sensations on his hands and in his shoulders.

“You’re fucking grunting at your dough like… like it’s something else, ok? It’s  _ distracting _ .” Ian hadn’t turned to look at Mickey, but in a flash he understood. His kneading noises sounded like sex noises, and Gallagher was getting turned on. The guess as confirmed when he watched Ian reach down to adjust his dick in his jeans behind the worktop. 

Any other day and place, Mickey would have leaned into the exchange, amplified and exaggerated his moans and grunts. But this really wasn’t the time or place.

“Weirdo. Turned on by fuckin’ bread.”

Gallagher gave him a small crooked smile that didn’t quite match Mickey’s own grin, and the competition went on. Mickey reminded himself to tease Gallagher later, sort of a ‘to be continued’ situation as he cut and shaped his baguettes.

Most of the bakers had broken out the digital scale and were dividing their dough  _ exactly  _ into four parts. More important than the weight, however, was the shaping. You couldn’t just throw a flabby penis shape of dough in the oven and expect a baguette to come out. It was more rolling, though Mickey kept his mouth pinned shut, both wanting and  _ not  _ wanting to distract Gallagher. 

After his rolls were roughly the right shape, Mickey flipped them over and began the process of pinching the seam. It was the one bit he remembered well from his prior adventure making baguettes, a fiddly kind of detail that seemed important. Not unlike rolling a joint, come to think of it.

Not all the other bakers were pinching. Or even shaping. Tony was rolling his dough like a little kid trying to make a PlayDough snake.

Next, Mickey turned his attention to the dough cradle he’d been provided. It looked like a piece of burlap, but it was thick and held its shape. He laid each baguette in a trough and pulled up a seam between them. He peered around, checking to see if he was doing it right, but everyone else seemed a step behind him. Shit. He could wait until someone else caught up to check, but he could feel that the baguettes would need every remaining minute in the final prove and then in the oven. Finally, he went for it, dropping the towel back over the shaped rolls in the cradles on the counter. 

Mickey wasn’t allowed to go for a smoke right now, he had to stay basically on camera, but he was truly considering claiming he had to piss just so he could sneak a smoke. Instead, he watched the other baker’s attempts. Some of them were so slow that he doubted their baguettes would get any second prove at all.

Ian, especially, seemed still paralyzed by indecision. He had already rolled and shape his baguettes freehand, when he suddenly smashed them all back together into a big ball and started measuring the quarters out again. Mickey wanted to smack himself in the face- Gallagher had just destroyed most of the texture the baguettes needed.

Nearly as bad was Candace, who after putting the baguettes into the cradle stuck them immediately into the hot oven with no second prove at all. Mickey cringed to think of what Paul would have to say about that.

Forty minutes were left, and everyone was playing chicken, waiting to see who’d break first and start baking their baguettes, aside from Candace. 

Mickey gave it five minutes, then casually began his preparations for baking. He slid each baguette out of its cradle onto a flour dusted baking sheet. The last step before throwing them into the oven was to slash the tops. They’d been provided a shitty safety blade, but Mickey didn’t think that would give the crisp, clean line he had in mind. Instead, he went to the back wall where all the extra equipment was stored and grabbed a newly-sharpened butcher’s knife. 

A camera person followed him back to his station and kept watch as he carefully sliced the tops of the rolls, then gently put the tray into the oven, pouring the water into the bottom tray to create the crucial steam. It was out of his hands now, whether he’d do well and get some cash, or get verbally castrated by Paul Hollywood. He was still a few minutes ahead of all the other bakers, save Candace, so he spent the remainder of the time drinking shitty coffee and watching everyone else sit on the floor peering in their oven doors. No way they’d catch him doing that shit.

With one minute left, he pulled his tray out. The baguettes had a rich, golden color and the crust felt thick and crispy. He was pretty happy as he slid them onto the tray just as the final time was called. Then he looked around. Everyone had at least put something on a plate but some of them… those weren’t baguettes. Those might not even be bread, by the looks of things. 

\---

The bakers brought their plates up to the front judging table, behind their photos. The judges wouldn’t know whose baking was whose, which meant it was supposedly fairer. Mickey wasn’t so sure about that, but those were the rules.

Paul began. “What we’re looking for are four equal-sized baguettes, crispy, cut on the top, good color, as opposed to ciabattas.”

The first set of rolls he and Mary examined were Jody’s. “These look pretty good,” Paul noted with a little surprise in his tone. As he ripped into one, Mary added “I can hear a nice crunch there.” 

“It’s crispy; good structure inside,” Paul continued. After a moment of chewing from both judges, he finished up the critique with faint praise, “Yeah, they’re nice, they are.” 

Mary seemed inclined to add more kindness. “You can’t fault that.” 

Next were Mickey’s rolls, and he cut his eyes away so he didn’t have to watch. “Right,” Paul started, and Mickey knew he’d been caught out. The sense of visceral panic, as if he’d woken up his sleeping father, heart racing and plans sweaty, was more than a little disconcerting. He really thought he’d done well….

“See that line there?” Paul used his pinky to indicate a line on the bottom. “That means it’s slightly, and I say  _ slightly _ , under-proved. But they’re not bad.” He patted them with his fingertips as if to make the point. After tasting, Paul admitted, “The flavor’s good.” 

“Just needed more crisping on the outside,” Mary mused. 

“I disagree. I think any more crispy and they’d be too dry.” 

“Agree to disagree,” Mary concluded diplomatically. 

That could have been worse. But Mickey needed to see how everyone else did before he could really relax.

Svetlana’s baguettes were up. “These look a bit more like ciabattas, than the do baguettes,” Paul began. The rolls were a little flatter than usual, Mickey could see. 

“The cuts are there.”

“Open crumb structure, you can see. Overall, they’re not bad,” Paul concluded. Svetlana still sat up straight and tall as if they’d just awarded her a gold medal for first place.

Paul slid the plate with Tony’s baguettes towards himself, giving a quick rundown of all the flaws. “Soft, a million cuts down the middle, a variety of shapes, underproved.”

Mary was there to soften the blow. “The flavor’s there.”

Paul didn't deign her comment with a response. “Moving on,” he looked at Ian’s baguettes. “Well, at least they’re all the same size, Mary.” 

Mickey could see Ian, still seeming deflated, somehow, flinch at the comment, even though it wasn’t negative. The rest of the comments were. “The split there, it’s under-proved. See? Both sides. Soft, and the color is pretty bad, too.” Paul had moved the baguette around, showing off its defects to the camera and the bakers, practically rubbing it in Ian’s face how bad he’d done.  _ Asshole _ , Mickey thought viciously. 

Mr. Perfect was next. But this time, Trevor’s bake wasn’t technically perfect. 

“I think they look really good. The problem is it’s under-baked. It needed another five, maybe ten minutes in the oven. You see how soft they are?”

Mary chewed thoughtfully. “It’s fine to eat.” Paul made a gentle harrumphing noise, and pulled the next plate towards himself.

Linda’s baguettes were also too soft with not enough time in the oven. Mary added that they were a fairly even shape, and that the inside was fine. This was a big come-down for Linda, who seemed to have been sailing through so far. Maybe, Mickey mused, Linda had already peaked. 

“Oh dear.” Paul looked at Vee’s baguettes ruefully, voice disappointed. “Four soft pieces of bread, which actually haven’t been steamed in the oven. The cuts are terrible.” 

“I’m just feeling very sorry for whoever it is,” Mary said, clearly trying to soften the blow. 

“Right. This one has had steam,” Paul examined Sheila’s baguettes, seeming a little more enthused. “The cuts are all wrong- the slashes should be on the diagonal.” Sheila was nodding frantically, which kind of defeated the purpose to blind judging. “They’re too short,” Paul continued. 

“And they’re not at all crisp, are they?” It was a question from Mary, but it had the finality of a closing statement. Baguettes were meant to be crisp. 

“No. Taste is ok though.” Easy for Paul to say, none of the bakers’ baguettes had tasted  _ bad _ . 

Finally, Paul pulled the last plate of Candace’s baguettes close. “We’re back in Italy now, making half-baked ciabattas. The shape’s all wrong. It’s too fat, it needs to be longer, for a baguette.”

They truly were the fattest baguettes Mickey could imagine, but they still looked ok to him. Probably why he wasn’t the judge. 

“Come on,” Mary chided. “It’s got a nice color underneath.”

Paul refused to be cowed. “It’s barely baked.”

The judges left the room to discuss, or rather, tally up the points. There really wasn’t much to discuss with how bad most of the baguettes had been. The bakers all sat on their stupid stools, looking down at their laps in shame, not meeting each other’s eyes, looking up at the roof. Anything to avoid seeing how shitty they’d all done.

Mary and Paul returned, still looking grim.

“So, in tenth place, who’s this?” Mary looked around curiously to see how would admit to being the worst of the bunch.

Candace raised her hand.

“You still get $100, so there’s that for consolation.”

Ian and Veronica were ninth and eighth, getting $150 each.

Sheila and Tony took seventh and sixth, with $400 a piece.

Surprisingly, Linda and Svetlana were fifth and fourth, earning $600.

Mickey started to shift around on his stool, hopeful, but not really expecting to earn the big money.

Third was Perfect Trevor, and damn, it felt good to have beaten him and his $700.

“Good steam in the oven, nice and equal baguette, but you just brought them out too early,” Paul explained. 

Trevor smiled that fakey-fake smile and nodded his understanding.

“Who is this here?” Mary asked, and Mickey could see she was indicating his baguettes. He was second. He’d come in second place on the Bread Week Technical challenge. 

Mary was still looking around, and Mickey realized he’d forgotten to raise his hand, so he shot it up like an over eager kid in class. She smiled at him softly. “They’ve got good slashes. They were a pretty good bake. That’s $900 for you.”

Vaguely, he heard Jody winning, but Mickey’s head was on another planet. $900. Added to what he’d already won in the previous weeks, that was almost $1500. That was a start on a down payment on a food truck, that was the first step to his goals. 

The bakers were released from their stools after the cameras cut away, and everyone clustered together to talk and taste, but Mickey stayed sitting. He’d never really believed he had any chance of doing well here; he lacked too much basic training and knowledge of food. But bread, bread week. He’d had a good one, at least. 

He tried to catch Gallagher’s eye, wanting to share his good feelings, but Ian had already snuck out of the tent, somehow. Mickey resolved to track him down, make sure it wasn’t one of those low-lows he’d mentioned. Just being neighborly, and all that.


	39. Week 3: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's checklist, and Ms. June makes an appearance.

After their individual reactions, the bakers were set free for the evening. Mickey saw Ian make a bee-line for his own apartment, and did likewise, beginning to change carefully out of the outfit he was required to rewear the next day.

There was a knock at the door, so Mickey crossed to it, shirtless.

“Yeah?”

It was one of the nameless PAs. A woman, wearing the ubiquitous headset. “Do you need your clothing laundered for tomorrow?”

“Laundered?” Mickey repeated dumbly.

The woman’s face didn’t crack. “Your clothes seem to have flour and … debris on them. We can wash them for you, so they’ll be clean for tomorrow.”

The offer made sense, so Mickey casually handed her his dark blue t-shirt, then began peeling out of his jeans. The door was still wide open, but only Jody and Sheila were on his floor, so he wasn’t expecting to show off the goods to anyone. 

Except, of course, Ian Gallagher came trudging up the stairs, head held low, like he had an ache in his shoulders. It was Mickey’s turn to stare, dumbstruck, in his boxers and socks.

The PA turned, and saw Ian. 

“Ian, is everything ok?” She didn’t sound like a robot anymore; she sounded like she actually cared. Of course Gallagher had won over the entire crew, Mickey thought.  _ Captain Friendly, over there. _

“Oh, sorry, Vicky. Yeah, the elevator’s down, I guess? But I wanted some-” That’s when Ian looked past Vicky and caught sight of Mickey. 

He could feel the weight of Ian’s gaze travel first down his body, crown to socked feet, then back up, pausing considerately on his hips and low-slung boxers. Mickey flushed, feeling the heat flow up his belly and neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. But he had to play it off somehow.

“Ey, man. Enjoying the view?”   
  


“I- yeah, I mean, no. I gotta- I gotta go.” Gallagher ducked his head, and hurried up the next turn of the stairs towards the roof.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Milkovich,” Vicky apologized.

“Not your fault he can’t keep his eyes to himself.” Not that Mickey minded, but he was conscious of Ian’s warning to not let the staff find out about … whatever they were doing.

Vicky took his clothing away, and Mickey pulled on a pair of loose sweats and an old tank, before heading up the stairs to the roof himself. He made sure to tuck a pack of cigarettes in his chest pocket, as an ostensible excuse for his visit, feeling suddenly too self-aware.

He bypassed the other bakers on the roof and found Ian on ‘their’ fire escape, hunched down against the wall, staring out at the constellations made by the lit windows in other buildings near and far. 

Mickey didn’t say anything as he hunkered down beside him, just pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then handed it to Ian for a puff.

The other man accepted it, then passed it back. They sat that way for a while, as the last rays of the sun sank below the line of the horizon and the moon came out, bringing a slight chill to the air, despite the day’s spring warmth.

“You’re gonna make me talk about it, aren’t you?” Ian asked, voice tired.

“Nah, man. We can just sit here and smoke. S’fine by me.” This was  _ technically  _ true, though Mickey would have preferred more physical contact than just just touching fingertips as they passed the smoke back and forth.

He was thinking about running a hand through Gallagher’s hair, from his ever-so-slightly receding hairline at his temple, back along the soft, almost-curls, down to his neck, tracing his fingers to his collarbone, fisting his shirt and pulling him into a kiss. On the verge of reaching out, Mickey stopped, frozen, as a face popped over the edge of the brickwork behind them.

“Hi boys! Do you wanna play a drinking game with us?” Veronica was smiling, and Mickey wanted to murder her.

“Uh, no thanks. I’m trying to teach Gallagher here everything he needs to know about bread before tomorrow.”

She laughed, but not unkindly. “Good luck with that!”

Ian turned his face, peering earnestly at Mickey’s face in the moonlight. “Is that what we’re doing here?”

“Fuck, no. I’m not telling you my secrets,” Mickey teased, heart a little bit lighter now that Ian had engaged at all.

“Mm-hm,” Ian hummed in agreement, not smiling, but eyes closer than his previous thousand-yard stare.

“Why, what’d you think we were doin’ here?” Mickey asked, suddenly curious.

“Felt like you were checking up on me, a little,” Ian offered, still staring.

“Mighta been that too. Can you stop  _ lookin’  _ at me?”

“I like looking at you, Mick,” Ian admitted, voice soft. “Liked lookin’ at you in the hallway.”

Mickey slid his foot over, kicking Ian’s ankle with his toe.

There was some scuffling behind and above them, and some concrete dust came filtering down as Tony leaned his head over the edge of the building’s wall, looking down at them upside down.

“Veronica said you two were hiding here, talking secrets.”

“Yup, Mickey’s giving me all the baking secrets. That’s how I’m gonna win the whole shebang,” Ian gave an obviously forced-out laugh.

Mickey grimaced. “You need something, Markovich?”

“Nah, just checking on my bros. My broskis. We got a- a bad bromance, right here.”

Tony was obviously drunk. Mickey brushed the dust from his bare shoulders, and folded one leg, about to stand, when Ian put a hand on his knee. “Wait.”

Now there was another face hanging over the ledge, Trevor was beside Tony, watching with beady bird’s eyes.

“Trevor.” Mickey kept his tone casual, even though he wanted to spit venom at the man.

“Everything ok down here? No illicit canoodling or sharing secrets going on, right boys?”

Murdering Trevor would definitely get him kicked off of the show. Even bodily harm would be enough. But if these assholes kept interrupting the conversation he was trying to have with Gallagher, he’d be moved to violence. It was a hate crime in progress, is what it was.

“We’re fine, Trev,” Ian answered tiredly. “Just takin’ a breather.”

“It is hard to be on camera all day,” Tony agreed vapidly.

A voice from the other side of the roof called Tony, and with that odd upside-down grin of Trevor’s, they both disappeared.

“So, is this one of those things?” Mickey kept his voice chill, detached. No matter how much he wanted to reach out and pull Gallagher to him, he kept his hands hung over his knees.

“Things?”

“Low things. The bipolar.”

There was a pause.

“I- I’m not sure, actually. I have to go through my checklist.”

Mickey looked around, expecting Ian to pull out a paper or some shit. Ian grinned, not the wide happy one, but still. Something.

He tapped the side of his head with one long finger. “It’s up here, Mickey.”

“Oh, right, ok.” He felt shamefully foolish for thinking it would be a physical item, but it didn’t matter how  _ he  _ felt, so long as Gallagher did it.

“Ok, these are all about the past week, right? One, depressive mood. Am I feeling depressed more than half of the past seven days? Yes.” Ian stuck out his thumb. 

“Two, sleep. Am I sleeping more than usual, or having trouble falling or staying asleep? Not really.” He kept only his thumb up. 

“Three, fatigue. Have I been unusually tired, even when I should be rested or energized? Yes. Big yes, there.” He put up his pointer finger in addition to his thumb, pointing the finger gun at Mickey.

“Four, isolation. Am I engaging with others or avoiding them?” He looked at Mickey, but not at his face. Just to count him as a person. Someone he’d ‘engaged with’ whatever the fuck that meant. “Eh, a little of both. No point.”

“Five, appetite. Am I eating more or less than usual? Definitely less. And not just cause I taste cakes and bread all day.” He popped up his middle finger now, just two fingers on his left hand still held down.

“Six, concentration. Have I had trouble focusing on things I like? Yeah.” He splayed out his fingers, comically trying to keep all but his pinky up, then gave up, putting up all his fingers and tucking in his thumb.

“Seven, drugs and alcohol. Have I relied on them to manage my feelings? Not yet.”

“Eight, guilt. Do I feel a sense of misplaced guilt for something that isn’t my fault? Absolutely.” He let his thumb join the rest of the fingers on his left hand, and curled his right hand in a fist.

“Nine, sex. Am I using sex to avoid a feeling, or am I avoiding sex?” He snorted, cutting a look at Mickey. “I wish, right?”

“And ten, suicidal thoughts. Not present.”

They looked at Ian’s outstretched hands, the right still curled in a firm fist, the left with all its fingers outstretched.

“Five points. It’s not  _ good _ , but not the worst. I gotta make some changes, maybe get back on an eating and workout schedule.”

“That’s it?” Mickey had expected  _ more _ , somehow. Some official list, with fancy terms in latin, shit he wouldn’t understand. This checklist, it was all super obvious shit. “What’s a bad score?”

Ian sucked in a breath. “Well, suicidal thoughts is an automatic go-directly-to-the-ER-do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-200-dollars. Otherwise, it’s a basic ten point scale. The lower the score, the better. Over eight means I need to call my therapist, probably get my meds adjusted.”

“And this just… happens? All the time? How do you live?” Mickey was honestly curious.

Ian shrugged. “Eh, well, with my meds, only a few times a year that it gets bad. This is- this is probably just a bubble, and I’ll bounce back. Chemical, not situational, right? If I was going through something super stressful, and I didn’t feel this way, something would be really wrong.”

Mickey felt dumb. Of course the competition and stress would take a toll on Gallagher. He let his head drop forward, staring at the darkness of his lap. “What can I do, to help?”

“Like, in general?” Ian’s voice was soft and patient.

“Or, you know. Now.”

Ian unfolded his right hand, where it was still clenched together, resting the back of his palm on Mickey’s knee, palm up and open. 

“Hold my hand, bitch.”

Hesitantly, Mickey slid his own hand over Ian’s, threading their fingers together. He didn’t mind it, and he didn’t want to stop, but…. “How’s this supposed to help?”

“Feels good. Makes me feel less alone. Like someone out here likes me,” Ian said simply.

“Dude, everyone here likes you, they practically drool over everything you say and do.”

Ian squeezed their joined hands a little in rebuke. “Yeah, they like the performative Ian Gallagher. The baker, the one who works out, the South Side kid made good. You’re different.”

Mickey was humanly incapable of not asking more. “Different how?”

He was pulled, slowly by their joined hands, until his chest was pressed to Gallagher’s shoulder, body twisted in a way that could have become uncomfortable, if he didn’t have Ian to lean on, warm body supporting his. 

“Cause, bitch. You  _ know  _ me. You think I’d trust any of them with this? Never. Only you, Mick.”

Mickey mouthed the words back, mouth pressed wetly to Ian’s neck, ‘ _ Only you.’  _ They sat like that for a while longer, before the yawning started and by mutual silent agreement, they headed down to their separate apartments. 

The waiting was bullshit, Mickey decided. Hiding, and waiting. He’d been doing it his whole life, and he was so fuckin’ tired of it.

\---

In the morning, Mickey waited in line for makeup, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of Gallagher. Instead, he got pulled in second, after Linda, to the usual chair, but was greeted by a new MUA. 

It was a dark-skinned woman with a clearly fake wig on her head. She wore a pretty yellow dress, partially buttoned up the front, but there was an artfulness to it. A choice, rather than carelessness. Her features looked impeccable, but as he drew closer he saw it was skill with makeup, rather than pure genetics that had helped. “Hey there. I’m Miss June and I am here to take your plain old handsome face and turn you into a very pretty man.”

Mickey couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Ma’am,” ( _ and when had he ever been moved to call a woman Ma’am before? _ ) “I don’t know what kinda magic hands and tricks you have, but I ain’t never been pretty before, and I don’t think today’ll be the first time.”

“Just gimme a second,” she had turned and was rummaging through a plastic container of small jars. “Found it!” 

He looked at the little silver-topped jar dubiously. 

“Don’t frown, the wrinkles make you look old, baby. This magic mud is gonna do some things for you.”

“Don’t you have that, um, whatever, the concealer or whatever, like Cole uses?”

“Concealer?” She gasped in mock horror, drawing back and pressing a hand to her ample bosom. “These freckles, we need to show them to the world, not hide them! The magic mud will remove impurities and moisturize you a little bit. You up for some eye liner?”

Was he? If she could take her features and turn them into this work of art…. 

“Let’s try it out.” 

When she was done, he could hardly believe his eyes. She was right about the freckles, they looked even more abundant than they had when he woke up. And the liner- it wasn’t a heavy dark smudge like Mandy’d used. It was a subtle blue black on his top lid, that somehow made his eyes look both [brighter and more defined.](https://64.media.tumblr.com/48d8e7752e25a599b7f5527041af95a9/c96deec62d5dab59-33/s400x600/c2d87b6c580a80392db19780076b95f04d3b0ec3.gifv) _Fuckin’ witchcraft._

“Perfection, sir. Pretty boy status achieved.”

One more life goal he never expected.

He smiled as he slid out of the chair, looking at his face up close in the mirror. “Thanks, Miss June. You just did the impossible, makin’ me look pretty.”

“Don’t tell me what’s impossible. Now go on! I have plenty more faces to beautify yet.”

Mickey went into Showstopper day feeling like he looked like someone else, maybe someone who could be star baker this week, even?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ms. June got USED BADLY on the show, but that's what fic is for, right? We'll see more of her and Cole in the future.


	40. Week 3 Reflection Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life got away from me but here is a SHORT update before we dive in Week 3 Showstoppers.

Mickey slid out of Miss June’s chair, and made his way to the door of the makeup trailer. Or, he tried to. Because sitting in Cole’s chair, closest to the door, giant booted feet blocking the exit, was Ian. And well, sure Mickey could have gracefully leapt Ian’s stupid feet. Or kicked him, or just asked him to move. But instead he stood, watching Cole work. 

He was using his fingertips to move a clear kind of goo over Ian’s face, swooshing it around and talking to him. “This is snail slime and it takes off decades, trust me!”

“Snail slime?” Ian was trying hard not to open his mouth and get any snail slime in it, so the urgent question came out more like “ _ Snl Slm? _ ”

Mickey saw an opening, so he took it. “Yup, read all about it in Us Weekly. Snail slime is the cure for all that ails ya. On your face, rub it on your bad knees, fuck, it works up your ass as lube too.”

Cole’s eyes went wide, and Mickey was about to say something, anything to take it back, when Ian and Cole both burst out laughing.

“Jesus, Mick, how long’ve you been there?” Cole had wiped Ian’s eyes clear, so he could look at Mickey.

“Just a sec, I had Miss June today.”

“Nice. Wait- is that eye liner?”

“Boy, have you been holding out on me this whole time? If I knew I could play with your face, the shit we woulda done already!” Cole teased as he brought a warm cloth to wipe the rest of Ian’s face clean.

“Just tryin something new.” Mickey shrugged, uncomfortable. 

“I like it,” Ian declared. 

“You’re so gay,” Mickey automatically shot back.

“Mickey. I’m gay. Cole’s gay. You’re gay. We’re all gay.”

“Well…” That was true. “Doesn’t mean I’m a bitch.”

“No one called you a bitch for wearing eyeliner. You want me to pull out a marker and write Guy-liner on that shit for you, to preserve your fragile ego?” Cole had a sharpie in his hand, ready to go, and Mickey felt small. 

He gestured to Ian. “Growing up where, you know, where we did. Being gay was like the worst thing you could be. And being a fucking bottom? I seriously thought I should kill myself when I realized what I liked.”

Ian eyed him, but didn’t say anything. Cole was dotting concealer on the circles under his eyes. “What was your great gay awakening anyway, Mickey Milkovich of the South Side?”

In truth it had been Ian as a stockboy, bent over, grunting as he shoved a box under a display. But he couldn’t say  _ that _ .

“Some action movie, I don’t remember.” 

Ian and Cole shared a look, then replied in unison. “Bullshit.”

Instead of being mad, Mickey laughed. “Yeah, that was a cop out. I guess, I saw some guy where I lived. He was doin’ something, all bent over, and my mind just sort of put me in there, had him bent over behind me, like moaning and shit. Had to leave the store real quick, even though I hadn’t stolen anything yet.”

Ian was giving him an odd look now, but Cole accepted the story. “Mine was Britney with that snake. I didn’t want to fuck her like my friends, I wanted to be her, and handle all the big snakes.” He stuck his tongue out and hissed. “Ok, Ian, you’re as pretty as you get. God wasn’t playin games when he gave you that mouth, that’s for sure.”

Ian stood up, and he and Mickey stepped out of the makeup trailer into the bright sunlight together. 

“You wanna-” Mickey gestured, “smoke or somethin?”

“Mmm nah.” Ian was still looking at him, like he was trying to read his mind. It made Mickey deeply uncomfortable, like he was under a magnifying glass getting fried to death.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” 

“Just thinking about what you said.”

“I say a lotta shit. Better to just ignore me.”

Ian smiled softly. “Mickey, I never ignore you. I could never.”

Mickey’s mind brought him back instantly to the Kash N Grab days, when Ian hadn’t know he’d existed. He’d sure as fuck ignored Mickey back then.

But it was like Ian knew, fuckin’  _ knew _ , what Mickey was thinking. 

“I saw you back then too.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to stare at Ian. “‘Scuse me?”

“You really think you stole all that shit cause you were smooth? Bitch, I knew if I didn’t let you keep that food you’d go home and starve. Plus, I kept hoping you’d see me, one day. Say something. Even something mean.”

“I- I didn’t-” Mickey stopped, purely dumbstruck.

“All bakers on set please!” The loudspeaker was right above their heads, and both men winced at the announcement. 

“Later?” Ian asked, eyes and voice soft, uncertain.

Mickey glanced around quickly, then reached out and squeezed his hand. “Yeah, later.”


	41. 41 Week 3: Showstopper Bake - Braided Centerpiece + Judging

“Welcome to Showstopper day! Now Mary and Paul would love for you to make a savory plaited- I mean, braided- centerpiece.”

Mary, to camera. “The showstopper has to be spectacular, really. And it’s got to be a whopping loaf, quite large.”

Paul, to camera. “When you’re doing your braid, you’ve got to make sure each of the strands are exactly the same shape and width and length. What you want is a beautiful uniform braid, and that is quite tricky to do. The star baker of bread week has always gone on to the final. Not too much pressure.”

“It can be any shape or size. You have four hours to complete this challenge.”

“On your marks…”

“Get set….”

“Bake!”

Everyone started the same: bowls out, reread recipes, and muttering to themselves. 

Mickey didn’t take the same amount of time to watch his opponents baking. His own task was too cumbersome to be given less than his full attention. From what he’d overheard, they were all making items they knew fairly well: family recipes, things that could be found at least in a speciality bakery. 

Mickey’s choice was more a memory than a recipe. Some dedicated internet research had identified the name of the break he was making-  _ kolach  _ \- but he was just going by the childhood reminiscences of his siblings for flavors and textures, with only his own baking acumen to determine the actual technique.

  
  


He half-way heard Mel and Sue talking to Gallagher about his Finnish p [ ulla  ](https://www.feastingathome.com/pulla-for-lea/) bread. 

“Well, Ian, how did you prepare for this particular challenge?”

Ian ducked, bashfully, taking the host’s questions more seriously than the part he was actually being judged on- the fucking bread! “So I read up on proving and baking, times and temperatures, and their relationships, before I got here.”

“And whad’ya learn?” Sue inquired, poking a finger under a covered bowl.

“Dunno, forgot it all already.” They all had a laugh, and Mickey was filled with the acid of envy. He wanted to make Gallagher laugh, to laugh with him, to teach him about bread, move their hands together in some Patrick Swayze Ghost-level kneading sex shit. But they were competing against each other, so he bit his lip and weighted out the dried  [ uzvar  ](https://ukrainefood.info/recipes/drinks/29-uzvar) components. 

\---

Tony had made a  [ twisted loaf ](https://gatherforbread.com/marbled-rye-bread/) , rather than a braided one, which was the first strike against him in Paul’s book. The other major issue was that he’d chosen two wildly different bread types: pumpernickel and light rye. There was no way those two breads would ever be the same level of proven, risen, and baked when jammed against each other. He hadn’t even brought an accompaniment to elevate his flavors, just served his bread dry, which Mary’s little twist of her thin lips indicated was a clear mistake.

Ian’s  [ pulla  ](https://www.feastingathome.com/pulla-for-lea/) was heavily seasoned with cardamom and coffee, so he served it with demi-tasse cups of  [ Turkish coffee ](http://thespruceeats.com/turkish-coffee-recipe-2355497) . Only Paul criticized serving a Turkish coffee with a Finnish bread on a British TV series set in the US, but the flavor and bake seemed fine.

The first truly  [ braided bread ](https://www.thespruceeats.com/braided-farmers-cheese-bread-427678) came from Jody. In his head, Mickey joked that he’d practiced on that long-ass ponytail of his, but regardless the braid itself was three very neat strands, incorporating a surprising mix of Spanish sheep’s milk cheeses, like  [ Manchego  ](https://www.castellocheese.com/en-us/cheese-types/semi-hard-cheese/manchego-cheese/) and  [ Idiazabal ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idiazabal_cheese) . The judges both went back for seconds, praising the moisture and flavor of Jody’s bread.

No surprise, Sheila’s bread was a slightly more cutesy version of Jody’s. It was a  [ braided easter loaf ](https://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/italian-easter-bread) , with the various strands colored with food dye, but with a thin thread of cream cheese and strawberry jam running through the whole. She’d left off the traditional dyed eggs, claiming they would be “too much!” Paul seemed to agree wholeheartedly, looking askance at the unnatural colored bread before home. The taste and bake were good, at least.

Candace had made a traditional  [ Challah ](https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/honey-challah/) , served with a version of  [ pate du foi gras ](https://www.thespruceeats.com/history-of-pate-de-foie-gras-1807640) from chicken livers, that she’d spent most of the four hours making. The bread was fine, the braid was even enough, but all the flavor was in the dip, Neither judge seemed very impressed, aside from the sudden ability to leave alcohol out of the recipe, which shocked even Candace when she realized she’d left out the planned  [ mead ](https://www.food.com/recipe/honey-mead-bread-475201) . 

The judges approached Mickey’s  [ Kolach  ](https://www.thespruceeats.com/ukrainian-christmas-bread-kolach-recipe-1137466) cautiously. He’d known he’d have to sell them on the bread, no matter how well he baked it- the recipe was too unknown even for bread experts like Paul and Mary. 

“So, when I was a kid, my ma used to make this, only she called it Christmas bread. I’d watch her make it once a year, and it tasted so special- we never really got any fresh food, let alone bread when I was little. After,” he cleared his throat, “she left,” (left was better than overdosed and died in an alley, most likely, right?) “my brothers and sister and I asked everyone about it, but no one knew what it was, until I started researching for this show. I found a recipe for a Ukranian bread, and I’d known she was Ukrainain, but when I followed the recipe, it wasn’t right, you know?”

He took a deep breath. This was another of his chances to win over the judges and audience.

“So I brought my sister and brothers together for a long weekend and we just, ya know, experimented. From the taste, the baking time, the braiding, all that… stuff. I guess this ain’t a classic Kolach, but it’s the one my ma made us, and so that’s what I wanted to give you.”

Paul regarded him seriously. “Mickey, you recreated an esoteric childhood recipe, even though the one in the book you managed to find wasn’t giving you the results you wanted?”

He squirmed, thinking he’d offended the meta[horical god of bread. “Yeah, I guess.”

Paul’s blue eyes just bored into him more deeply. “That’s a fair gift, Mickey. I’m sure your ma’d be proud.” Mary gave him a wee pat on his arm as she passed. “Well done, Mickey. Well done indeed.”

Luckily, the camera crew moved on, just catching Mickey scrubbing his cheek and nose with a rough fist to keep his emotions from pouring down his face.

Linda’s bread was up, and even from a distance Mickey could see it looked flawless. She’d made a Syrian recipe,  [ Kleecha  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OqelMZha5rQ) with a matching story about making the  exotic spiced syrian braided dinner rolls with her grandmother every holiday. That pretty much blew Mickey’s missing-dead-junkie-mom story out of the water, he realized. The only advantage he could see was that Linda’s “bread” was a bit closer to a cracker or a cookie. Paul seemed to agree, through he did appreciate the flavors and technique. 

The final three braided breads were all weirdly similar. Vee, Trevor, and Svetlana had all relied on natural food colorings and flavors: herbs, berried, and nuts, in differing applications. Neither had any major missteps, aside from Trevor’s persistent demand to make everything he baked a  [ gay rainbow flag ](https://diy-enthusiasts.com/food-fun/bread-recipe-make-tri-colored-bread/) . Svetlana had used fresh berries and compotes for her  [ babka ](https://www.twosisterslivinglife.com/babka-bread-filled-with-blueberry-jam/) , while Vee went with a  [ Swedish classic ](https://www.pinterest.ie/pin/556264991467757552/?amp_client_id=CLIENT_ID\(_\)&mweb_unauth_id=&from_amp_pin_page=true) , drizzled with royal icing and sliced almonds. 

There weren’t any huge missteps from any of the bakers, nor any major front runners that Mickey could tell, in the Show stopper. It would all come down to the points from the two previous rounds to determine the week’s winner, and who would have to hide in the apartment building like a ghost until the end of filming.

\---   
  


It was time for judging, and Mickey didn’t have his hopes up. Hope was a thing that led to disappointment, in his experience. Had he done his best work? He thought so. The best he could, under the weird-ass circumstances, distracted by cameras and flirty red-heads and sneaky assholes. 

Somehow. Mickey had ended up on the stool between Ian on his right and Sheila on his left. The rest of the bakers were distributed pretty randomly down the line, from Candace at the far right and Trevor at the far left. How Mickey and Ian  _ always  _ ended up side-by-side was a mystery, but not one he wanted to look too deeply into right now.

Having watched every season of the show previously, Mickey knew that using his family’s heritage as a gimmick could either push him over the top or be the kiss of death. But he wasn’t hoping. He was just sitting on his wobbly stool, incredibly, wishing he could reach out and hold Ian’s hand beside him. Not for comfort or anything like that, but just because it would feel  _ right _ , somehow. He gripped his hand in a fist, holding it tightly so it wouldn’t betray him.

Paul and Mary, Mel and Sue finally appeared, and after a few last minute touches from the PA’s, took their spots. The cameras started rolling. 

“Bread week is always a turning point in the competition,” Mel began. “It seems to separate the wheat from the chaff, if you’ll permit the pun.” The rest of the hosts laughed, and Mickey tried to find a smile to plaster awkwardly over his own face.

“And this week, I have the lovely job of declaring the winner. From a simply perfect sourdough to some standout baguettes, and finally a winning sweet Ukranian bread, Mickey, congratulations!”

He couldn’t feel his face, his heart was beating a million miles a minute, and he thought he might be frozen, but he could still feel the warm pats on his shoulder from both sides and a few others, Ian, especially. There was a moment for him to bask, to think of all the people in his life who’d told him he’d never succeed at anything, that he was fucked for life, especially his father, and then the hosts moved on, but Mickey wasn’t really, couldn’t really, listen anymore.

“That means I have the terrible job of saying who’s going home today. And unfortunately, that’s a bit complicated,” Sue said, facing them all soberly. Paul crossed his arms across his massive chest and pulled his mouth down in a deep frown.

“We have a few hard-and-fast rules here, to help keep a level playinjg field for everyone. Liker not accessing the internet for baking ideas during filming, no undue privileges, and so forth.” Sue paused.

“But we also ask that the bakers not become physically involved with each other during filming.”

A shot of ice water filled Mickey’s veins. Was this it? He’d win Star Baker then be sent home a minute later for whatever he and Gallagher had been doing?

“A member of the cast came to the producers and let us know that two bakers had become… unduly close. After some investigation, we found that to be true. So I’m very sorry, Sheila and Jody, we need to ask you both to leave.”

The entire row of bakers was frozen, until Sheila let out a loud, weeping, sob and ran off set. Jody coughed twice, then hurried after her. Everyone else just sat, unsure what to do or say. This had never happened before on the show.

Mickey cut his eyes right, and saw Ian’s face devoid of color. It could easily have been them: they hadn’t been nearly careful enough. He flicked his eyes away, not even wanting to be caught on camera looking at Gallagher too long. Past Sheila’s empty stool, Trevor sat, not with an expression of distress or anxiety, but of  _ pride.  _

That fucker.

Paul took over. “We have rules in place for everyone, to keep it fair. We ask that you all follow them from here on out. Cheers, Mickey. Everyone else, go get some rest. We wish the best for Sheila and Jody in their futures.”

Mary nodded her agreement, but Mickey could see bright silvery trails of tears on her withered cheeks. She’d like Sheila and Jody, shit, she genuinely seemed to like all of them.

The bakers slowly stood and passed around their showstopper’s for the others to taste. Everyone praised Mickey’s kolach, and he watched Ian carefully tuck a large hunk in his pocket for later. Mickey wanted to grin, to promise he’d give him the recipe, make more for him anytime. But he knew he couldn’t do any of that shit. All of that was over for them now. No more fire escape. He knew even as careful as he could be, Trevor had a hold over them, deep suspicions, if not outright proof. And to keep it that way, to make sure neither he nor Gallagher were eliminated that way, he’d have to do the hard thing, stay completely away.

“Hey, good job, Mick,” Ian said softly.

Mickey turned so he was facing Linda and Tony. “Thanks, everyone. Help yourself.” He didn’t even look at Ian, even though he knew it had to hurt, but the guy had to understand: this competition meant everything to him, it meant freedom, independence, it meant getting away from Terry for good. It was his one and only chance and no ginger dick was gonna block him. He just couldn’t until the show was over. Seven more weeks. 

Easy.

Instead of tasting the other baker’s breads, he was arguing with himself, in his head. He could be there for Ian, if he needed,  _ as a friend.  _ A buddy. Granted, Mickey’d never had a friend and didn’t know how to be one, but he could learn, obviously. Be supportive, like Byron hadn’t. No problem. 


	42. Week 3: Downtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor wasn’t sad; he was gloating, tacitly threatening everyone else with similar future accusations. And if it wasn’t an illicit hook up, of which Mickey had zero illusions that he and Ian were the only ones, it could be anything, from a hidden cell phone to help with recipes. The rules they'd all agreed to were so long and in such small print, he seriously doubted anyone, except maybe Linda, had read them in their entirety. He certainly hadn’t. He got the gist though- no help, no cooperation, no relationships

It was a huge problem, actually.

Mickey had foolishly thought Trevor’s actions would be easy for him to accommodate, but now, his mind kept circling how close Ian and he had come to being eliminated themselves. Trevor HAD to have at least as much evidence on them as he had on Sheila and Jody, so why hadn’t he knocked out four opponents, instead of just two?

Showing his baking on national TV was one thing, being sent home in ignominy and outed on national television was a whole other kettle of fish Mickey was  _ not  _ ready to deal with. Home? He wouldn’t have a fuckin’ home to come home to. No family- he’d be disowned, if not outright murdered.

Was that Trevor’s whole plan to win the competition? Slowly pick off his competition, not through baking skills, but through back alley secrets and intimidation? Fuck. It was a good plan, and Mickey was a little sorry he hadn’t thought of it himself. Didn’t mean he had any respect for the guy: Trevor was smarmy and fake. His actions all Saturday just proved it. Instead of lying low and letting the remaining bakers adjust to the new reality, Trevor was everywhere, constantly pretending to be sad about missing Jody or Sheila by turns. Complimenting their baking. Wondering what they were doing right now, wasn’t it  _ weird  _ that they were somewhere in the building with the rest of the eliminated cast members, but they couldn’t see or talk to them, wasn’t that  _ weird? _

No Trevor, it was not fuckin’  _ weird  _ it was- it was heartless, Mickey finally decided. Trevor wasn’t sad; he was gloating, tacitly threatening everyone else with similar future accusations. And if it wasn’t an illicit hook up, of which Mickey had zero illusions that he and Ian were the only ones, it could be anything, from a hidden cell phone to help with recipes. The rules they'd all agreed to were so long and in such small print, he seriously doubted anyone, except maybe Linda, had read them in their entirety. He certainly hadn’t. He got the gist though- no help, no cooperation, no relationships. 

Every time during the day Mickey had tried to check out the rooftop to take a smoke break, Trevor had been there, smarming his way around, greasily rubbing his hands together as he played at sympathy with whoever was closest. Another easy way to get kicked off the show would be physically fighting, so Mickey kept a wary distance, going up and down the elevator a few times, hoping and waiting for a time on the roof without Trevor. 

Finally, around 4, he gave up. His lungs were craving the nicotine, and he thought if he stayed in his little apartment for another minute, he’d lose his shit. The walls had started to feel too close together, and all he could do was perseverate over what he’d done, what he planned to do, what could he do. Over and over- he knew he needed fresh air and maybe a fresh perspective. Of course he’d have liked to talk to Gallagher about it, but he was being friendly. Friends gave each other space. Friends didn’t spend every free minute together, even if their hands weren’t grabbing each other’s dicks.

As the ancient elevator’s door slowly slid open, Mickey could see nearly all the other bakers sitting around the faux cabana bar. No tall ginger fuck, though. Personally, if he never sat on another bar stool in his life, it would be too soon, so Mickey just walked past them on his way downwind of them where he could finally smoke.

He made sure to stay in earshot and eyeshot of the main group. They seemed to be having a disagreement centered around Trevor and his actions. 

“May your muffins be dry and your bread over cooked, snitch.” The hissing curse came from Svetlana, to Mickey’s surprise. She had nothing to worry about being exposed for, did she?

Fuck, they all probably did. It was like that movie where the idiots are at dinner being blackmailed, and it comes out why each one was. The people you least expect have secrets too. Maybe Svetlana was in the country on some kind of work visa, and being on the show would violate that? No, that was bullshit, she wasn’t stupid, she’d never agree to do the show if that was the case. It had to be something different.

It kept his mind busy while he smoked, wondering what kind of dirt Trevor could possibly have on bakers like Linda and Vee. Tony’s dirt was probably some dirty-cop thing, and Candace’s alcoholism came with its sequelae of secrets. 

For that matter, Trevor had to have a secret too. No one spent that much time and energy digging up dirt on everyone around him and didn’t have their own hidden skeletons in the closet. Trevor’d been smart, coming in and immediately using the show as a platform for his gender identity; no risk of someone “outing” him or being exposed in that way. But no guy, trans or otherwise, made it through the Southside without dirt. It was just a fact of life. Ian’s being as sweet as he was despite his secrets- that was the anomaly.

Behind him at the cabana, he could hear Ian joining the group, making a joke, getting a laugh. Of course he was, all fun and games on the surface. It was the inside where he was dark and sad and damaged. Maybe that’s why they’d been drawn together, because all Mickey’s damage was pretty visible: even if folks didn’t know  _ what  _ was with him, they knew there was definitely something. But Ian never had that experience, only had people assuming the best of him, fuckin’ Boy Wonder over there. For the first time, Mickey wondered what it might be like to grow up expecting to become a hero. That had never been his experience- Terry’d made sure Mickey knew he was a piece of trash, his whole life. He could be a useful piece of trash, sometimes, but at his core, Terry told Mickey every day of his life that he was worthless and no one would ever love him.

Shit was dark. Mickey flicked the dead butt off into the air, letting it fall the stories to the ground below. Someone else’s problem now. Before he could turn to face the group, already steeling himself for some healthy social interaction, Gallagher had already popped up at his elbow.

“Hey, Mick.” He ducked his head, that weird little tilt that he only ever did when he was looking at Mickey, like he was trying to figure out what was happening inside Mickey’s head at any given moment. 

At this particular time, Mickey was pissed. Not at the group of people, not at himself, no. He was pissed at Trevor, because his first thought when Gallagher had popped up was the near-overwhelming urge to kiss his stupid freckled face. Not even the kind of kiss that was a step above a hand job or a stepping stone on the way to a blowjob. Just a kiss that said, ‘ _ Hey. Hi. You _ .’

So fucking soft, Mickey brought down his customary scowl to try and cover.

“Can’t be talkin to you here, now.”

“Mmm, talking? Is that what we can’t do now?” Ian’s teeth were so white in his smile, eyes soft at Mickey.

Mickey threw an elbow into his ribs as retribution for askin’ stupid questions.

“Look, you know, what I know, that you know.” He paused, not sure the sentence had made sense, but pressed on anyway. “So we gotta back off for a while. No more of whatever this is.”

“You mean our totally normal and safe friendship? Our weekly bookclub? Knitting circle?”

Mickey lowered his brows and flattened his mouth, but didn’t answer.

  
Ian sighed. “I know we need to be careful, but this,” he gestured around the rooftop, to the other bakers at the cabana, to the open air around the building, “This is as safe as it gets to have a normal-person conversation.”

“Wouldn’t know normal if it bit you in the ass…” Mickey muttered, still unconvinced.

“I mean, if you’re offering….” Ian’s voice trailed off suggestively.

“See?” The anger in Mickey tone was real, mixed with his very present fear for them both. “That shit right there. Trevor already has enough dirt to put us both out, and you wanna go an… an’ flaunt it.” His voice was almost shaking with emotion.

“Mickey, Mick,” Ian soothed. “I’m not flaunting anything. That’s just how I talk, just who I am. Trevor knows that about me.”

An uncomfortable heat rose in Mickey’s throat as he was forced to wonder how well Ian and Trevor knew each other, but he pushed past the unpleasant thought.

“Great. Go joke with his ass then.” Mickey spun, intending to go back to the elevator and ride down to his apartment and take out his frustration on some bread dough, but Ian caught his elbow, half-spinning him in close. Too close, Mickey realized, glancing around wildly for anyone watching.

The other bakers had found some alcohol and seemed to be concocting mixed drinks from whatever they could carry from their apartments.

“This again? Mickey, I have, like, zero interest in his ass. He had designs on mine, for sure, but it doesn’t go both ways. The only ass I’m interested in here is yours. The only mouth-” His eyes traced Mickey’s face slowly, and it was a more open and intimate look than Mickey had ever been the object of before. “The only eyes, the only neck,” Ian’s eyes danced over Mickey’s face, over his whole body. Mickey could see Ian start to breathe more quickly, could practically count his freckles with how close he was being held, their only point of contact Ian’s sharp fingers digging into Mickey’s elbow.

“The only skin, the only tattoos, the only chest-”

“Ok, ok, I get it. You’re obsessed with my body, geez.” Mickey looked out over the city to suppress his smile, but Ian could hear it in his voice.

“Shit, no. If you think I’m only obsessed with your body, Milkovich, you got it all wrong. It’s your brain I wanna wrap up in a tea towel and carry around for -when I’m lonely.”

Mickey did turn to face him now, expression a little shocked and grossed out. Ian’s grip relaxed, and suddenly there was both physical and emotional space between the two men.

“Too far?”

“Too fuckin’ far, man.”

“S’true though.”

“Ok, well, keep that shit to yourself, for now.”

“You seem extra grumpy today, did they give you decaf or something?”

“Ey, fuck you.”

Ian put one arm across his chest and rested his other lebow on it, bringing his hand to his mouth in an exaggerated pondering position.  _ What could make Mickey so grumpy on a day off? _

Then the penny dropped, and Ian had to suppress a wide grin. He knew what Mickey was missing- he missed it too. But before he could draw Mickey into this illuminating conversation, Mickey interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m goin’ in. Can’t take this weirdness right now. S’ like I can feel Trevor watching us.”

Ian shot a quick glance to the other bakers, and Mickey was right: Trevor did have his muddy brown gaze trained on them.

Without another word, Mickey turned and stalked to the elevator. The doors opened almost immediately, and Ian could see him punching the button for his floor.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

He half-sprinted across the rooftop, sliding in just as the doors were about to close. The whole elevator gave a huge creak as he hit the back wall, but then it steadied as the door locked shut, shuddering as it began its descent.

Mickey just stood in the corner, eyes wide, staring at him. 

Ian opened his mouth to explain, to say anything, really, when the whole carriage lurched, screeching and suddenly dropped a foot down, before stopping. Both Ian and Mickey had, in panic, reached out to touch the walls of the elevator cage, spreading their feet. Their eyes met, the same thought clearly in both their minds.

_ Was that it? _

The elevator squawked again and dropped, three feet this time. 

“Something’s- something’s broken, man. It’s gonna drop us the rest of the way,” Mickey bit out from panic bitten lips. “We’re gonna die, squished up like jello.”

“No, it’s not,” Ian reassured him, despite having no clue. “Something broken, sure, but the stop start won’t kill us, it’s only been a few-”

The smell of burning began to spread through the carriage and the whole box dropped down the longest freefall yet. It felt like 20 or 30 feet, but Ian thought it might be as few as seven.

“Ok, maybe we’re gonna die like jello,” Ian admitted, more shaken than he wanted to share.

Another metal-shearing noise echoed up, but this time the carriage didn’t drop, only listed somewhat to one side, about 15 degrees. Ian was in the low point, and Mickey didn’t even hesitate: he abandoned the high side and let himself fall into Ian’s body, head tucked under Ian’s chin. Ian took a deep breath, letting the familiar wonderful smell of Mickey ground him, as we wrapped one unsteady hand around his body, holding him tightly. 

A little light in the control panel had come on, bright red, and a voice echoed out. “Is anyone in there? We see there’s a problem, the emergency brake is on, and help is on the way.”

Ian cleared his throat, letting the racing of his heart die down, before he responded. “We have two of us in here- how far away are you?”

There was a delay, with murmuring Ian and Mickey couldn’t make out.

“Sir, this is the automated emergency system out of Evanston. We have your address, and you’re safe, but it may be awhile before we can get to you. Please sit tight.”

The red light went out, as did all the lights in the elevator carriage, leaving Ian holding Mickey tightly in the dark.

\----

The dim emergency light finally clicked on, and they were left, pressed together in the half-lit, crooked, small, elevator carriage. 

Mickey squinted like he was in pain. Ian could hear and feel his throat move as he swallowed, and then blue eyes were wide and almost frantic, glancing around looking for an exit.

“Are you… panicking?”

“No.”

The word was forceful and painfully untrue. Ian could see the rapid rise and fall of Mickey’s chest, the way his hand was braced too tightly on the elevator’s metal bar.

“You’re claustrophobic.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Mickey glared at him, but it had none of its usual bite. “It ain’t a phobia. I just don’t like it.”

“I really don’t believe you.” Ian had no earthly idea how to deal with this. He could barely deal with his own panic attacks. He wasn’t equipped to handle Mickey losing his cool. “You’re not gonna go all Southside on me, kick my ass, are you?”

“No.”

Mickey had taken offense to that. There was something hurt in his expression, however fleeting, and Ian kicked himself inwardly for asking in the first place. He didn't need to worry. He was safe with Mickey, he knew that.

“It ain’t the size of the space,” Mickey said. “It’s bein’ trapped.”

“Ok, so cleithrophobia, then.”

A pair of perfect eyebrows managed to convey surprise and displeasure. Mickey’s scornful look spoke volumes. ‘ _ Yes, please,’ it said, ‘now is the perfect time to argue over the technical name for my fear of locked rooms. We absolutely don’t have more important things to deal with. I’m not panicking or anything _ .’ Maybe Ian was reading too much into it - maybe all it said was, ‘ _ don’t be a fuckin’ show-off _ .’

“Sorry. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

“If you’re so damn smart, figure out a way to help me, would you?”

That was sort of a fair point. He had been in ROTC, should be able to figure this out. He blew out a breath, trying to think of the things that helped him when he had anxieMickey attacks.

Getting out of the situation was first on the list, but that obviously wouldn’t work; they were stuck until the repair people showed up. What else was there? Breathing exercises - but most of the time if you didn’t practice those, they didn’t do anything for a phobia. 

The only other thing that came to Ian’s mind was distraction. He wasn’t sure that would work either. That was more for little kids at the doctor or adults at the dentist. But maybe he could take Mickey’s mind off of it enough to make it bearable, at least until the elevator started moving again.

“Okay. Okay. How about I distract you?”

It was telling, the fact that Mickey didn’t argue with him. He just nodded, his jaw tight, his hand still braced on that useless railing. He was working hard to keep everything on lockdown. This man's self-control was staggering.

“Okay. Great. Um.”

“Doin’ a great job so far,” Mickey said, letting just a little more of that panic slip.

“Right. Clearly not working.” What could Ian do? What other kind of distraction was there?

And then - then - Ian was struck by an idea. A stupid, inspired, incredible idea.

No. That’s ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly work.

Except that  _ maybe  _ it could.

“I’ve got it,” Ian said, all bravado and confidence. “I know something that will absolutely, one-hundred-percent help. You just have to trust me.”

Mickey looked up at him skeptically.

Ian put on his best encouraging face. “Seriously. I promise. It’s definitely going to work. Just step back a little.”

He could tell Mickey was unwilling to let go of the anchor of Ian’s body but he slowly complied- doing as he was told, hands still trembling, brows drawn down in confusion. For the briefest moment, Ian hesitated. Should he-

Nope. Gonna do it. It’s a good thing I have no shame.

Ian braced himself, resting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders. He winked - because if you were going to do something so superbly stupid, you might as well do it with a flourish - and leaned in, capturing Mickey’s lips in a kiss.

In hindsight, it could’ve been a really bad idea. Kissing a person who was already so on edge could’ve ended very poorly. Punches, heck Mickey probably had a knife on him somewhere. 

It could’ve. But it didn’t.

Mickey was surprised at first, Ian knew because the shorter man practically melted into him. He would’ve if Ian hadn’t had steady hands on his shoulders, bracing his weight so they just swayed slightly.

After surprise came something that felt like realization - like all at once, Mickey understood what was happening and was ready to get on board.

And after realization came Mickey kissing him back.

Oh man. It was so much better than Ian’s mind had been replaying from their time on the fire escape. It was soft and hot, sending little sparks through him every time Mickey's lips moved. Mickey’s mouth was definitely bigger than Ian's, and Mickey used it to his advantage, coaxing Ian's lips apart with that wide tongue, making every small swipe and slide feel somehow dirMickey.

Mickey was a better kisser. Ian would freely admit it. Ian had undoubtedly had more practice, but Mickey - Mickey was wild. He was unbridled, raw, not inhibited by any kind of need to please. He was all in, and Ian got lost in it, so much so he didn't even feel it when the elevator started to move.

Mickey's hands were suddenly gripping Ian's hips, ghosting underneath his shirt, dancing over his skin. It felt good, the cool metal and warm flesh in such wonderful opposition. Mickey drove his tongue deeper, fought harder, and Ian started letting him win, letting him take, because apparently Ian would give Mickey anything he wanted. And based on this response, Mickey would probably enjoy it.

Ian pulled back, staring at Mickey’s closed eyes for a moment, before asking, "Is it working?"

Mickey breathed deeply through his nose, trying to figure out why part of his brain was still insisting that this was a bad idea. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

He heard Ian chuckle softly, felt one broad hand let go of his ass and trail back over his hip. His cock gave an interested twitch, and he reached up to run his own hands through Ian's unruly curls. With his eyes closed, Mickey was almost convinced they were back home, with the lights out, instead of trapped.

He gave a startled gasp as he felt Ian undoing the zipper on his jeans, fingers tracing over the thin cotton of Mickey's boxers.

"We're could get in so much fucking trouble..." Mickey whined, but he didn't try to discourage Ian otherwise.

"Shh. We've got a couple of minutes."

Mickey snorted. "Feeling cocky, are we? Cause if you start this and then leave me hanging, I’ll definitely going to swap your sugar for salt next week.."

Ian snorted. Mickey felt a rush of cool air as Ian stepped away from him, and a quiet sound escaped his lips. He was tempted to open his eyes and see what the fuck Ian was doing, but he squeezed them shut and gripped the railing along the wall of the elevator with both hands. He heard a muffled thump that he couldn't quite identify and then gasped as Ian pulled his underwear down, exposing him completely.

"You're crazy," Mickey hissed, teeth clenched. He cried out when he felt the wet heat of Ian's mouth engulfing him, tongue flicking up the length of his cock and coaxing him quickly to full hardness. "Jesus, Gallagher!" He let go of the railing and fisted his hands into the short threads of Ian's hair again, doing his best to hold still and let Ian take the lead.

As Ian's tongue circled the head of his cock, Mickey completely forgot about everything else. Nothing mattered anymore, not the argument, not the fact that they were trapped... He rocked his hips slightly, groaning as the head of his cock nudged the back of Ian's throat. He felt the vibrations as Ian moaned around him, felt everything melting away aside from the glorious pressure of Ian's tongue and the surrounding warmth of his mouth.

Mickey moaned, fighting to still his hips as Ian sucked and licked like a man possessed. The pressure built low in Mickey's belly, shockingly fast. He tugged gently on Ian's hair, trying to warn him, but that only seemed to spur Ian on. He rolled his tongue along the bottom of the shaft of Mickey's cock before tracing the crown with the tip. It sent tremors through Mickey's body, and he braced himself against the back wall of the elevator.

Ian reached up to cup Mickey's balls, rolling them gently in his palm as he continued blowing Mickey as though his life depended on it. With a muffled shout, Mickey's body locked up as he came deep down Ian's throat. He bit his lip, white spots bursting across the dark field of his vision.

He slumped against the wall, gasping for air as Ian tucked him away and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wrapped his good arm around Mickey's waist and Mickey leaned forward, his forehead pressed into Ian's shoulder.

"It's okay, I've got you."

"Mmmf."

"Feeling better?"

"'M still annoyed at you," Mickey mumbled, waiting for his heart to stop pounding.

"No, you're not. You’re annoyed at the show, and at Trevor."

Mickey was about to argue, but the lights flickered back on overhead, causing them both to gasp and squint. The elevator car jerked suddenly and Mickey yelped, making Ian chuckle.

The full lights came on, and Ian sighed, realizing their time was likely over.

Mickey slammed a hand on the emergency stop button, and Ian looked him over quizzically. 

“We’re not leaving this elevator till you put your dick in my mouth, Gallagher, so hop to it.”

\---

Jaw practically on the floor, Ian gaped at the man who had been practically panicking minutes before. He found himself being manhandled against the wall where Mickey had stood just a few minutes prior, warm hands pulling at his belt buckle.

His body reacted immediately; he felt the surge of heat flood his body, and his cock stiffened in his slacks. Mickey continued thumbing at the bulge, sliding his fingers up and down his length.

“If there’s a worker below, he’ll be able to hear everything,” Ian protested weakly.

“Fuck ‘em. As long as it’s not Trevor or a PA, and you keep quiet, we’ll be fine.”

Intellectually, Ian wanted to fight him, but his body was already betraying him. He bucked up into Mickey’ palm, hoping his precum wouldn’t stain his jeans.

As if he could read Ian’s mind, Mickey took it all a step further. As quiet as a mouse, he undid Ian’s belt and slowly slid his zipper down. Ian clenched his jaw and put a hand over his mouth to keep quiet, as Mickey dug his hand inside his boxers and rubbed a finger over the wet tip of his length. The pace was sickeningly slow, and Ian’s cock bounced up and down from the anticipation. He felt almost sick for how much he wanted the contact. He kept anxiously glancing at the elevator doors, but no one started prying them open. Mickey was an expert at keeping quiet—so Ian had to do the same.

Then, without warning, Mickey ducked his head down and wrapped his lips around the head of his thick cock, taking it out of his boxers completely.

Ian coughed, barely covering a loud moan from escaping. He froze his body, completely overwhelmed by the moist, hot inside of Mickey’ mouth. There was hardly any movement, however. Mickey just kept still, his lips holding the head of his cock loosely in his mouth, letting it stretch the corners of his lips wide. The two of them just breathed for a moment.

Then, Ian felt a soft, warm tongue swirl over his tip. It licked over the edges of his cockhead, lapped at the leaking slit, and brushed the sensitive part where his circumcision scar was. It took every bit of decency in him not to thrust up into Mickey’ mouth, forcing him to gag on his cock and having the entire building hear. Part of him was ashamed—the other part wanted nothing  _ more  _ than that - to let everyone in the whole building, on the block, in the fucking  _ city _ , that Mickey was pleasuring him. He gripped the metal bar on the wall of the elevator behind him until his knuckles turned white.

Just when he thought he would pass out from the tension, he felt Mickey slide his way down the length. His lips, slick with spit, glided over the taut skin of his cock, sucking it down into his soft palate. Ian rested a hand on the back of Mickey’ head, fingers gripping into the soft dark hair, as his cock was fucking up into the mouth. His crotch throbbed, aching from the sensation; he had never felt more aroused in his life.

Mickey continued, taking the cock deeper into his mouth before it finally reached the entrance to his throat—after a moment of preparation, to keep from gagging, Mickey then began to swallow. He gulped the Ian’s cock down into his throat, feeling the thick shaft bulge out of his tight esophagus.

Ian was reeling. The tightness of Mickey’ throat was unbelievable, and the warm, velvety interior sucked his length deeper inside it. He tried his best to remain still, as he felt Mickey reach the root of his shaft. He felt the tip of his nose brush against his ballsack, and nearly came from the thought that his cock was embedded so deeply inside the other man, how similar he might feel buried in Mickey’s ass.

He expected Mickey to start bobbing up and down, but he didn’t. Rather, he kept his cock buried down his throat, and just kept swallowing, flexing the muscles in his mouth to milk Ian’s load up and out as slowly as he could. Ian tightened his grip in Mickey’ hair, leaning his head back against the wall. As Mickey’ throat contracted over and over again, he felt his balls churn and tighten, ready to shoot his load deep down inside Mickey. Ian clenched his toes in his shoes to keep still, and felt the heat knot up deep in his spine.

Mickey milked him for what felt like hours. His vision had gone hazy, and he sweated as the slick throat continued to open and close around his length. Ian’s control continued to loosen, and he lost all control when he felt Mickey grab the back of his thighs, in order to gag himself deeper on his cock.

Ian used both hands and forced Mickey’ head down onto his crotch, keeping him from moving away, simultaneously thrusting upwards and holding. His ballsack spasmed, and at last his orgasm came.

Ian clenched his teeth as he felt the first rope of cum shoot up into Mickey’ mouth. He lost all control, and suddenly did not care whether Mickey choked on his spunk or not; he only wanted it down inside him. His cock pulsated; his balls tightened; he jerked forward in his seat as his semen flooded the inside of his throat. From how deeply, Mickey was embedded on his cock, Ian knew his sperm spurted out directly into his stomach, with no chance of escaping from his lips. He held Mickey there, forcing him to gulp down his cum, as he began to see white.

As the aftershocks of his orgasm began, Ian refused to let go of Mickey’ head. He could feel the plush lips still sucking at his spent length, desperate to milk out more of his load, but he was empty, totally spent, knees sagging with relief as Mickey stood, casually wiping his mouth, and not meeting his eyes.

Neither man realized there would be no more of these stolen interludes until the show concluded in six weeks.


	43. Week 4 - Unconventionals -Signature Bake

Week four opened with a bang- Sue banging a giant metal gong for no good reason. The bakers all looked on in tolerant amusement, camera people swirling through the tent to get a good shot of each of them. Mickey’s instinct was to hide somehow, but he forced himself to stand still, mind cast back to Miss June’s advice of the morning as she moisturized his skin and ran some pine-scented product through his hair.

“Might as well give ‘em all something nice to look at, even if the foods gonna suck this week.”

He’d shot her a look of concern, then recalled- Alternative Ingredients Week. That meant vegan bakes, dairy-free shit, gluten-free desserts, which sounded about as unappetizing as he could imagine. Since the crew got to enjoy the leftovers after each round, Miss June actually did know a thing or two about what was going on.

“Yeah, I’m not stoked to leave ingredients out and substitute chemicals, but what can ya do? That’s the challenge.”

She’d snorted. “Some challenge. It’ll almost be worth it to watch Paul’s face as he has to eat what you all bake for him. Almost. There, you’re all set.” With a final brush of chapstick on his lips, she’d sent Mickey on his way to set.

Now, waiting for Mel and Sue’s introduction to the Signature Challenge, Mickey could see Gallagher sneaking peeks at him, when he thought the cameras weren’t on him. Dumb fuck. The cameras were  _ always  _ on them in the tent. And why was he so obsessed with Mickey today? Their little elevator adventure had been two days ago, and by mutual unspoken agreement, they’d avoided each other the rest of the weekend, probably because the chances of a repeat encounter were high, and the lack of safe spots for such an activity was another deterrent. Mickey knew  _ he  _ wouldn’t be able to be near Ian without wanting more right now, and if the fucking cameras weren’t around, and all the other bakers, he might have done something about it. But this was the game, and he was in it to win it. Even if it meant baking without eggs or some other stupid rules for the week.

Eventually. Mel made it through her intro and the directors seemed satisfied, so the time clock began. The Signature Bake was savory vegan tartlets, two different flavors. Tartlets, Mickey had learned, were just miniature tarts. Fancy finger food, because smaller meant more complicated, apparently. He wasn’t planning to rewrite history: his two were creamed spinach with vegan cheese and garlic with wild mushrooms, both in the same shortcrust pastry. The big risk was the vegan cheese- it didn’t melt the way real cheese did, and so getting it to incorporate with the spinach would be a challenge. For now, he was just focused on the pastry, combining ingredients and kneading the mixture by hand.

Ahead of him, Ian’s bench was already messy, with dashes of flour and apple peel lying discarded. Mickey watched as he carefully sauteed up some onions in a cast iron skillet.

“Hey, firecrotch, you cryin’ over how bad your bake is, or the onions?”

Ian huffed out a laugh, but didn’t turn. The nearest camera person, weirdly, pointed his camera lens down at the floor. Mickey stopped kneading, curious as to what could possibly make the ever-present recordings stop. The guy spoke to him quietly but seriously.

“Uh, Mickey, we’re gonna need to edit that out, so if you could come up with a more appropriate nickname for Ian?”

“Shit, sorry,” he apologized. “Tough guy ok?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” The camera guy lifted his cameras back up to his shoulder and indicated Mickey should repeat his quip. It really took a lot of the fun out of the joke, having to repeat it on cue, and Ian’s laugh seemed merely polite, rather than authentic. 

The judges began to make their rounds, discussing what each baker was making. Everyone seemed to be relying heavily on vegetables and herbs, which made sense. Dairy and fats carried flavor, no dairy, no flavor. Everyone was trying to compensate with anything else they could think of. Mickey’s hopes for the success of his own tartlets weren’t high to begin with, but hearing everyone else’s recipes and plans made him feel a bit better. At least he wasn’t gonna be the worst: that would certainly be Tony, who was using fake meat in one of his tartlets, and eggplant in the other. Eggplant was good smothered in cheese, or breaded and fried, but on its own carried almost no flavor, Mickey knew.

Trevor’s plan also sounded sketchy to Mickey; he was making a faux bechamel sauce with rosemary. Maybe over the right filling it would be fine, but he was literally just pouring that into the pastry case by itself. Sounded messy and disgusting.

The bake went by quickly; with no animal products that needed to be cooked, the only delays were cooking the vegetables down enough to be toothsome. Svetlana had gone so far as to use a pressure cooker, chopping up a whole butternut squash and throwing the chunks in with seasonings, trying to get it to soften quickly. Pretty smart, really. Mickey knew his shit was soft, but then he started to worry it was texturally too mushy, so he left the pastry cases in the oven an extra two minutes, hoping they’d crisp up. Maybe they were crisp, but they were also dangerously close to a too-dark, nearly charred color. Fuck, fuck him for deviating from his plan. But time was nearly up, and there was nothing left for Mickey to do; he couldn’t start over, so he just dropped his filling into the tartlet cases and hoped the fake ingredients would be worse than his nearly burnt ones.

Finally, it was time for judging. Paul, Mary, Sue, and Mel began by approaching Linda, who sat placidly on her stood, regarding her tartlets calmly.

“Morning Linda,” Paul began. “What’ve you got for us today?”

She indicated a tartlet whose filling was an alarming shade of green with red highlights, “This is a  [ tomato, coriander, and pesto tartlet ](https://www.cilantroandcitronella.com/vegan-tomato-pesto-tart/) , and this one,” she gestured to a shit-brown one, “is  [ falafel and tzatiki tartlet. ](https://susancooksvegan.com/falafel-tart-with-vegan-tzatziki/) ”

“Falafel in a tartlet? Inventive!” Mary piped in. 

Paul turned a random tartlet over, irritatingly scraping his knife over the bottom to check for doneness. “No soggy bottoms,” Sue noted, and Linda agreed, pleased, but not surprised.

Both tartlets cut well, the filling staying basically together. After chewing on the green tartlet, Mary pronounced “Needs more salt,” and Paul agreed. The falafel tartlet was overly dry, but the flavors were better, at least.

The judges moved on, and Linda seemed stoic, accepting their criticism, not distressed by it.

Veronica’s bench was next. She also hadn’t been wildly creative, producing a  [ sweet potato tartlet ](https://www.thebakingfairy.net/2019/11/vegan-marshmallow-sweet-potato-tart/) and a  [ broccoli and tomato one ](https://www.theguardian.com/food/2019/jun/19/kim-joys-recipe-for-vegan-onion-broccoli-and-tomato-quiche-tartlets) . She’d bought (not made, which was a mark against her)  [ vegan marshmallows ](https://thehiddenveggies.com/vegan-marshmallows/) to top the sweet potato tartlet. Mary and Paul didn’t seem amazed by it, but Mel and Sue were in raptures over the barely savory tartlets. The vegetables tartlet suffered from a lack of seasoning, and Paul wasn’t terribly impressed by them. 

He addressed the whole tent, “Is this a trend now, you all forgot how to use salt and seasonings, just because we said vegan?”

No one replied, but Mickey could see shoulders slumping and feel the anxiety in the tent rising. He wasn’t feeling totally confident himself, despite knowing that he’d been heavy handed with the seasonings, with no fat to bring out the richness of the tartlets, nothing would taste quite right. Paul and Mary wanted a vegan tartlet that could hold its own next to a non-vegan one, but that wasn’t really fair, Mickey decided.

Irritated, Paul moved to Svetlana, eyeing her tartlets with skepticism. 

“Is  [ sage with butternut ](https://www.veganfoodandliving.com/vegan-recipes/butternut-squash-tart-with-pumpkin-seed-pesto/) , and  [ garlic quiche ](https://lovingitvegan.com/vegan-quiche/) ,” Svetlana explained tersely.

“Quiche? You made that vegan?” Mary inquired.

“Yes. Is made with tofu.”

Paul frowned. “Tofu’s like a flavor vacuum, very hard to get anything to come through and stick to it.”

Svetlana shrugged. What was there to say?

“I’m sure she’s done a lovely job,” Mary offered, as always trying to stick up for the bakers and hope for the best.

In this case, her hopes were answered. Svetlana’s garlicky quiche was full of flavor, something about coconut milk and nutritional yeast that Mickey ignored, and her  [ butternut squash ](https://www.thetomatotart.com/recipe/vegan-butternut-squash-mushroom-tart/) one was also well seasoned. Paul had no criticisms, and it seemed like he might even offer Svetlana a handshake, but then he walked away.  _ Dick _ .

Trevor’s bench was Paul’s next destination. The  [ vegan bechamel ](https://www.thissavoryvegan.com/simple-vegan-bechamel-sauce/) tart was fully baked, but the interior did ooze out like some sickening substance. Mel and Sue made sure to comment on its likeness to concrete, and Trevor glowered at them under his fluffy bangs. But his  [ pot pie tartlet ](https://www.ilovevegan.com/vegan-pot-pies/) was somewhat better, even if Paul did comment on the chunks of tofu. “They’re too big. Because tofu doesn’t naturally have any taste, you need to chop it up small to infuse the flavor of the rest of the tart in. Otherwise,” he held out a forkful of white tofu alone, “you get a mouthful of nothing.” Trevor nodded, but Mickey could see his clenched fist. Seemed like his strategy of eliminating bakers through treachery wouldn’t do him any favors, unless he could improve his own baking. Served him right.

To everyone’s shock, Candace hadn’t used any alcohol in either of her tarts. Sadly, she hadn’t used any seasonings either. Her  [ mushroom and leek tartlet ](https://www.onegreenplanet.org/vegan-recipe/mushroom-and-leek-tart/) was fully baked, but underseasoned, and her  [ caramelized onion tartlet ](https://sweetsimplevegan.com/2018/07/vegan-caramelized-onion-tart/) was seasoned, but wildly underbaked, the pastry soft under Paul’s relentless knife.

Ian fared better with his  [ french onion tartlet ](https://holycowvegan.net/french-onion-tart-gluten-free/) .

“This pastry is quite nice,” Paul offered.

“The onions are perfectly cooked,” Mary added. “Soft enough to bite through, but not mush.”

He’d used two different pastries for his tarts, a regular white flour for the french onion, and a whole wheat flour for his  [ celery root and apple tartlet ](https://noteatingoutinny.com/2017/03/10/savory-celery-root-and-apple-hand-tart/) .

Paul questioned his choice, “Why whole wheat, Ian?”

Ian’s voice shook the slightest bit, but he answered smoothly. “I thought it might add a savory, nutty sort of flavor. I didn’t want the apple bringing it too far to the sweet side.”

Paul stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Good choice.”

Ian sagged slightly with relief. 

“Yes, they’re quite delicious,” Mary agreed. 

Only Tony and Mickey remained to be judged, and Mary and Paul came to Mickey next.

He bit his lip, watching Paul scrape the bottom of his  [ creamed spinach tart ](https://theveglife.com/vegan-creamed-spinach-phyllo-tart/) . He knew it was overbaked, Paul knew it was overbaked, the only question was how bad would he come down on Mickey for the error.

“It’s over baked,” Paul finally pronounced. Mickey had to restrain an eye-roll. 

“Yeah. I thought the texture of the inside was too much like the tart if I left ‘em soft.”

“Interesting theory, but unfortunately, the taste of the char is a bit distracting,” Mary told him gently.

“It’s not burnt, Mary,” Paul disagreed.

Mickey watched in mild amazement as the two judges went back and forth on whether his tarts were burned, or merely overbaked. Neither seemed convinced after the discussion, but they moved on to taste his  [ mushroom and garlic tart ](https://biancazapatka.com/en/mushroom-leek-quiche-vegan-tart/) . 

“Same issue,” Paul said bluntly. “If you hadn’t blitzed the mushrooms up so small, you wouldn’t have had to worry about the texture.”

Mickey nodded. The guy was right, of course he was right. Mickey’d over chopped the mushrooms, which was dumb, and then overbaked the pastry. He sighed deeply, frustrated with himself and his choices.

“But this one doesn’t taste like char,” Mary put in archly, eyes fixed on Paul. “It tastes quite nice.”

The last baker to be judged was Tony. As Mickey predicted, the fake meat in his  [ meat pie ](https://itdoesnttastelikechicken.com/vegan-tourtiere-vegan-meat-pie/) , though flavorful, tasted artificial. 

“It was always going to be a hard sell, vegan meat pie to a Brit,” Paul told the man.

“I just wanted to make something to remind you of home!” 

“You did, mate, you really did,” Sue assured Tony. “My mum can’t cook worth a farthing, so this tastes homemade to me.”

The  [ zucchini and eggplant tart ](https://www.onegreenplanet.org/vegan-recipe/spiral-eggplant-zucchini-tart/) was beautifully arranged, with a blossom of strips of vegetables and pastry, but the pastry inside the whorl was still raw.

“It was never going to cook with the wet vegetables around it,” Paul explained. “But you could have offset that with better flavoring. Some salt wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, I thought I might have skipped that step,” Tony agreed mournfully. He looked like nothing more than a long-faced sad dog, one of the hounds from the Saturday morning cartoons. 

Back at the front of the tent, Paul addressed the bakers.

“That clearly wasn’t your best work, but I’m sure the technical can only go up from here.” 

Mickey wasn’t so sure of that.


	44. Week 4 - Technical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ain’t got time. Band Aid, bitch. Now!”

After the lunch break, the bakers returned to find the entire workshop completely reset, neat as if there’d never been any flour explosions or oven mishaps that morning.

Mickey had kept to himself during the meal. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to talk to anyone very much, it was that he wanted to talk to some  _ one  _ very much. So he shut up and ate his sandwich in big, chomping bites, shewing officiously at any of the other bakers who even seemed vaguely inclined to start a conversation. Ian had given him sad puppy-dog eyes a few times, but seemed to realize he should keep his distance.

Now they were back in the tent, waiting on Mel and Sue to give them the task for the Technical. 

Mel began. “Hey bakers. Welcome back to your technical challenge.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, hoping he was off-camera. Of  _ course  _ they were back for the technical. This was all just shit for viewers at home who might have paused the show and forgotten where they were. Total bullshit.

“Today, the challenge has been set by Mary. Any advice?”

“Trust me, trust yourselves, and it will work out.”

“Ah,” Sue nodded slowly. “It’s a sort of trust exercise.”

Mickey wasn’t so good at those.

“Right, off you two go,” Mel shoo-ed Paul and Mary away. Once they’d been ushered clearly out of the tent, to god knew where, probably a spa, she continued. “So for your technical challenge today, Mary would love you to make a  [ vegan tropical fruit pavlova ](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/prue-leith-vegan-tropical-pavlova/) .”

Ok, Mickey knew some of those words. Well, he knew the word fruit. And he knew tropical. And vegan, sort of. But pavlova? Wasn’t that the guy with the drooling dogs?

Sue picked up the narrative. “The judges will be looking for two perfectly piped vegan meringue discs. That means no egg whites, my friends-”

A quick glance around showed all the bakers looked as stunned as Mickey felt. Gallagher was as pale as the white canvas walls of the tent, his freckles standing out sharply.

“-sandwiched and topped with coconut pastry cream and tropical fruit. The meringue must be crispy on the outside but also kind of marshmallowy on the inside.”

_ Fuck. Fuck this was gonna be so bad. Fuuuuck. _

“You’ve got two and half hours to complete this challenge.”

“On your marks-”

“Get set-”

“Bake!” The two women cried in delighted unison, as if they hadn’t just spoken terrible gibberish that spelled Mickey’s baking doom. 

How the fuck did you make meringue without egg whites? Mickey could barely recall how to make a meringue at all, let alone without one of its three ingredients.

He looked over the sparsely-written recipe Mary had provided, taking in the jars and fruit that lay under the plaid hand towel as the camera people jumped into action. 

They started by surrounding Svetlana . “Okay,” she seemed to be muttering to herself. “We are in business.” 

Tony was next. “I’ve eaten a pavlova before. Never made one. Never made a vegan one, either. Little bit out of my comfort zone with this, but here we go.”

Trevor was just frowning, prune-faced, at his pile of ingredients. For once, Mickey felt like he and Trevor were exactly on the same page. 

Making the vegan meringue involved using some kind of fancy bean juice, which Mickey hardly believed until he watched Linda set her mouth in a thin line and pour the liquid out of a can of chickpeas into her mixer with sugar and cream of tartar. He followed her moves, watching in disbelief as a fluffy white mixture began to rise in the bowl.

Once he’d gotten it light enough, he then had the tricky business of transferring it into a piping bag, which was just a plastic baggie with pretensions of grandeur. Then, he piped into a rough circle, and put it on the oven to ignore for an hour and change.

The next step had coconut cream in a new mixing bowl of the stand mixer for a while, so Mickey had the bright idea to try and get ahead by slicing some of his fruits up into fancy bits now, rather than waiting until the very end of the bake. He had a mango, two kiwis, two passion fruits, a pomegranate, and one whole pineapple to deal with. Brandishing a butcher knife, he attacked the pineapple first. He’d managed to cut off four of the six sides of the fruit when he felt the burn in his finger. 

Pineapple juice was acidic, acidic pineapple juice was flowing over his hand, mixing with some bright red- he’d cut himself. Fuck.

He dropped the butcher's knife on the counter top, grabbed his cut hand with one of those ubiquitous kitchen towels, and held it up with his unharmed hand. “Cut! I cut my f- stupid hand!” 

The camera people instantly seemed to swarm around him, and he could see the nurse on duty setting down her teacup with a disgruntled sigh. But before she’d even had a chance to hoist her rayon-pantsed ass off the folding chair in his direction, Ian Gallagher was in front of him, tugging his hand down with a deeply concerned frown on his face.

Something about that look, the way his hands were firm and deliberate, made all the acid burning the cut in Mickey’s hand just vanish. Ian pulled Mickey by the hand to the nurse’s station. They sat as one, Mickey suddenly a little light-headed at the way the kitchen towel was now stained scarlet, and Ian still holding tightly to his wrapped hand.

Mickey’s breath left his lungs in a gasp, and Ian looked at him, staring into his eyes. Logically Mickey knew it was just a look, checking to see that he wasn’t fainting, but somehow, the look felt like it dragged on, like he was seeing  _ things  _ in Gallagher’s green eyes, saying things in response with his own…

Ian slowly unwrapped Mickey’s hand, which released another unsightly gush or blood. Mickey could feel the remainder of the blood in his body drop to his feet, and the world went a little gray. Fuck, he was better than this. He’d seen people shot, been shot himself! Just not, like, where he could see the wound, watch the blood trickling out over his skin, still warm from inside his body… 

He blinked, and suddenly he was halfway on the floor, staring up at the roof of the tent. It wasn’t sheer white, like it looked on TV, there were wires and red hair covering his view as Ian stared at him. Mickey realized with a jolt that he’d slid out of his chair, and Ian had caught him. Slid, like fainted. Like a bitch. On national television. And now Ian was just holding him there, that little crinkle between his eyes betraying how worried he was. Mickey fought him, tried to sit up, desperate to regain himself.

“Easy there, Mick, easy does it.”

He managed to struggle away from Gallagher, and wobbled to his knees, using his one uninjured hand to help himself back into the medic’s folding chair. 

_ Wait, why weren’t there cameras everywhere? _

“Where’s the camera guys?”

Ian looked down at the cut, which had slowed to a sluggish ooze of blood, Mickey looked away as his stomach gave an unpleasant roll. “Uh, your tattoos. Impossible to film this and blur them out, so they headed over to get some b-roll footage of all the blood on your workbench.

Mickey saw Ian was right, a single camera person was swooping around, but the rest were all doing interviews as the bakers continued working on their vegan pavlovas. Shit- there was no provision for extra time due to injury during a technical challenge. He’d be serving vegan meringue by itself, at the rate he was going.

“Just slap a bandaid on this shit, so I can go try and make something presentable,” he growled at Gallagher. 

Ian’s expression was dubious. “I think you probably need-”

“So help me god, if the next word out of your mouth is stitches, you’ll be the one needing them,” Mickey threatened under his breath.

“- to see a real doctor, is all I was gonna say,” Ian returned peevishly.

“Ain’t got time. Band Aid, bitch. Now!”

Sullenly, Ian dug in the med kit and found the biggest, most ostentatious bandage possible, wrapping Mickey’s hand with care. It shouldn’t have felt good, but no one had patched Mickey up except Mickey since- fuck, he couldn’t really remember.

Gallagher’s hands moved methodically, checking the edges of the bandage before declaring him “as good as you’re gonna get.”

Then it struck Mickey. He’d lost time in the challenge, but now, so had Gallagher. By choice. The nurse was still sitting on her butt, eating a snack; she could easily have handled this shit. Instead, Gallagher had willingly given away time he needed. Now, they would be head-to-head for last place, and maybe even against each other to go home.

“You- you dumb fucker-” Mickey sputtered.

“Me?” Ian sounded shocked. “The one who just fixed your hand?”

“Yeah, you, dumbass!” Mickey was keeping his voice low, but the ire in his tone attracted glances from Candace and Vee. “Now, we’re both fucked in the Technical, which means we’re  _ both  _ probably bottom two for the week. You versus me, to go home. You see why I’m pissed, yet?”

“Oh, shit.” Ian’s face blanched. “Well, look, it hasn’t been that long, we can both catch up and get the stupid pavlova done if we hurry.”

Mickey arched one brow. “Ok, you do that then, smart guy. I’m gonna take my time and put up correct ingredients, even if I don’t finish.” It was the only strategy open to him, to differentiate himself in terrible-ness from Ian’s.

The moment was over. The clock was still running. With a nod, they left the first aid station and returned to their benches. Mickey’s had been sanitized, and his pineapple and knife replaced with new, unsoiled ones.

He followed the rest of the recipe to the letter as time ticked down, even as he could sense Ian at the bench ahead of him, working like a whirlwind. 

When time was called, Mickey stood back and surveyed what he’d produced. His meringue was as fine as it could be, and his coconut pastry cream also… existed. The sliced fruit looked more like a fruit cocktail, and there was no passion fruit curd to be found. But what he had was solid. If someone else fucked up their meringue badly enough, he would probably be fine.

\---

It worked. Even Ian’s half-assed rushed pavlova worked out better than Vee ashen meringue and Candace’s salted coconut cream. Linda came first, again, winning a cool grand, and Tony miraculously came second, earning $600 for a “reasonably well-decorated and accurate bake,” in the words of Mary.

Third and fourth were Svetlana and Trevor, each getting $500. Trevor’s meringue was slightly over-baked, and had lost some of its characteristic chewiness, but Svetlana’s was underbaked, and was tacky to the touch.

Miraculously, Mickey came fifth, which he privately thought was a pity placement, cause he saw Paul and Mary eyeing his obscenely large bandage. He’d have to thank Gallagher for that later. He took home $400, and so did Ian, coming sixth. His rushed fruit curd had actually curdled, and the whole plate was messy as shit.

Candace was seventh: her pavlova had fallen, coconut cream loose and dripping all over the plate. She still got $300. Finally, Vee came in dead last, also getting $300 for a pavlova that was missing kiwi fruit, under whipped coconut cream, and a stray chickpea in her meringue that Paul silently placed on the table beside her serving plate.

It was good not to be close to last, but Mickey knew he and Ian were still too close to call. If Vee and Candace pulled out good Showstoppers, and either one of him or Gallagher took a nosedive, they’d be the one going home. Or at least, back to the apartment on lock-down for six more weeks until the show was over. Sounded a lot like prison, so him. Fancier meals maybe, and privacy, but just another box to be kept in. 

Mickey had no plans for that- he’d made it this far in life with just juvie on his record, and he didn’t want to start by getting locked up on a stupid TV show because he couldn’t handle a big fuckin’ knife. He was determined to do better than Ian in the Showstopper, no matter how many sad looks and too-close brushes of his body the taller man offered. He wanted to care- but he wanted to win more.


End file.
